


The Making of Claude von Riegan

by IGOM



Series: You Can't Go Home Again [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Fish out of water story, Gen, Hilda Valentine Goneril & Claude von Riegan Friendship, Mention of Claude being a sexually active teen, Racism both casual and serious, Rated for that and general subject matter, Really he brought this on himself, but a loveable bastard, canon compliant if you squint, that accidentally poisons himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 52,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26983735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IGOM/pseuds/IGOM
Summary: Years later, Claude would tell his comrades that he ran away from home to come live with his Grandfather Riegan. But he was always one to stretch the truth a little.A possibly true story about how an Almyran Prince became the leader of their most despised enemy, the Leicester Alliance.Updates should be biweekly at the most.
Series: You Can't Go Home Again [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118303
Comments: 24
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude gets kidnapped by an unlikely source.

He awoke with a start and a bump, tumbling out of his seat in a heap onto the floor. “Ow,” Khalid said to no one in particular and began to beat the dust from his sleeves. Everything ached including his head, and not just from the fall; even sitting upright made every muscle scream in protest and the world spin. At least the rocking of the carriage was soothing, the sound of the wheels on the hard road a lulling rhythm. _Wait_. He couldn't recall getting into a carriage.

He scrambled to his feet despite the pain so he could pull back the curtains on the carriage window. A mistake; he screwed up his eyes at the assault of too bright sunlight and forced himself to look. This was most definitely not Almyra. The terrain was mountainous and rapidly descending into foothills. He sat back onto the bench, trying to remember all those stuffy geography lessons he'd been forced to endure as part of his royal education; gods, did his head hurt. Why couldn't he remember what got him into this carriage?

Time to change tactics, since all those tutors and lessons were for naught today, and he looked again: it seemed to be morning, which meant they were traveling west. Which meant Fodlan. He laughed; whoever pulled off this kidnapping didn't know enough to not kidnap the one Almyran prince no one would miss. There were probably a couple horses in the royal stables that would be mourned more fervently if they turned up missing.

He tried the door idly, knowing before the handle refused to turn that it was futile; locked from the outside, of course. So they were only kind of amateurs. That was something; it would be embarrassing to be kidnapped by complete idiots. But in that case, perhaps they could be reasoned with. Steeling himself, he beat his fist against the carriage wall; each smack was agony. “Hey, I know you probably don't care, but if you're hoping to get some ransom or start a war, you've kidnapped the wrong prince.” At least his voice hadn't given out. He waited; the carriage rolled on. “I could help you with that, though. I know which of my cousins are the most important.” The royal fanily could surely spare an Ali or three, and it would be a sweet bit of revenge for all the years of torment he’d endured.

Still, the carriage creaked on, moving inexorably toward the yet unknown destination. “You could at least give me something to drink, I'm as parched as the East Desert, and a dead prince won't do you much good.”

Slowly, the carriage rolled to a stop. He listened as the door was unlocked, wishing too late that he had thought to look for a weapon before taunting his kidnappers. The door opened and a woman stood there, a veil over her mouth and nose in the style of a holy woman, but a surprise; those eyes were unmistakably Almyran. "Khalid, will you shut up?"

He blinked. His mother's favorite attendant kidnapped him? Impossible. "Hamza, what in the name of-"

"I said to shut up." She threw a bag into the carriage. "There's food, water, and a letter from your mother explaining everything. Now, keep quiet and lower the curtains or we'll get caught." She slammed the door and he heard the clinking of the lock. He heard her muttering to herself. "Honestly, trying to sell out your cousins, what are you thinking?" He heard her shoes hit the side of the driver's box, and soon they were swaying again with a snap of the reins. He looked at the bag for a long minute, considering his options. Then he sighed; unlikely that Hamza would be involved that would require betraying his mother, so it was probably safe.

As promised, there was a skin of water and something to eat, even if it was only soft goat cheese and hard bread. Once he had made sure the curtains were drawn tight, he began to eat. As promised, there was a letter, too, sealed with a yellow ribbon and wax. There was just enough light to read it if he leaned against the wall. His mother's handwriting was clipped and precise, the letter short.

"My crescent moon," she began. "I'm sure you're trying to figure out how you got into a carriage travelling to Fodlan, as I know you're clever enough to figure that out before you've read this letter. However, you're hardly clever enough to avoid poisoning yourself for the third time this month." He groaned, remembering; he'd been crushing up some strange blue flowers found in the wyvern paddock, and then felt very dizzy as a cloud of pollen erupted out of the mortar into his face. "Unfortunately for you, your cousin Jahan walked into your room and found the scene and also inhaled whatever it was. As you can imagine, that has caused some uproar and there have been some accusations that you attempted to murder the Crown Prince's son, so I've arranged for you to spend some time away from the palace with my father. He's interested in making you the next Duke Riegan now that my brother is gone, so do try to make a good impression."

He had been so engrossed in his mother's letter he hadn't noticed that the carriage had stopped until he heard a man's voice speaking in Fodlan. "State your business."

"My mistress is a holy woman and she had a vision to head west to where the mountains touch a frozen sea. If she does so, she will be rewarded with the gift of revelation. We travel there now with the hopes of divining the next coming of a golden age for humanity." He bit back a laugh; how much thought had they put into this backstory to fool the devout Fodlans into letting them cross?

"And your mistress is in the carriage?" He heard footsteps coming around the side of the carriage, and he held very still, not daring to breathe.

"Yes. Apologies, part of her vision was very clear that no man should see her form nor face until she has reached her destination. She cannot speak or touch another person until she has received her revelation, and has to remain in fervent and constant prayer until we've found the spot from her vision." Oh, Hamza was laying it on thick, but at least it halted the footsteps from coming closer to the windows.

"I promise, we've nothing but our provisions for the trip and some spare clothes for myself."

A sigh. "Proceed." A crack of leather, and they continued on.

He returned to the letter. "When everything has calmed down we'll send for you, most likely in a few months. Your grandfather will want to see the birthmark on your arm; I know we've always told you to keep it hidden, but it's very important he see it for himself. A word of advice: seek out Judith von Daphnel. She's a friend you can count on, as I believe your aims will be closely aligned with hers regarding the future of the Alliance. Don't underestimate her, though; she will use you for her own ends if it suits.

"Be well, Khalid, and don't cause anyone too much trouble.

"With love, Tiana.

"P.S. Your grandfather thinks your name is Claude. Let's not ruffle any wyvern scales in regards to that particular point, yes?"

He sighed, puffing out his cheeks in frustration. It had long been his mother's favorite threat to send him packing to his grandfather Riegan when he misbehaved more than she liked, but as he grew it seemed less terrifying and more desirable; in short, the threat had lost its edge. But now, in this rocking carriage with every bone and muscle on fire, being smuggled across the border with only one of his mother's attendants for security, he began to reassess that opinion. Hamza could handle herself, that much was for certain; he knew from experience that she always had one stiletto knife somewhere on her person. But he was sure she would not be allowed to stay with him once they reached their destination, nor would she want to. She, like the rest, tolerated Khalid and his antics but nothing more.  


Fodlan; he knew very little about the place, not from any reliable source anyway. Their instructors were all biased by their dislike of the Folanders and the frequent border conflicts between Almyra and their western neighbor. He was expressly forbidden from talking to the Fodlan traders who came, having been caned more than once after have been caught breaking that particular rule of his grandpapa's. The only Fodlander he knew was his mother, and she refused to talk to him on the subject.

She'd mentioned the mark. He pulled up the sleeve on his right arm; there, a faint outline of a crescent moon on his skin. Sometimes during training he could feel a soft warmth emanate from it. No one knew about it but his parents and himself, not even Nader. Even in the hottest days when the temptation to roll up his sleeves was almost too much, Khalid had been careful to keep it hidden as he had been instructed to by his parents. When he grew up and began to get involved with those of the opposite sex, he kept that habit and avoided becoming completely undressed in any trysts he involved himself in.

Another sigh escaped him. He had only wanted to be left alone, free to pursue his own particular interests without hindrance. Why had Jahan come into his room anyway? No doubt to torment him in some way, taunt him for his green eyes and for the fairness of his skin, for all the things that marked him as half Fodlan, half an _enemy_. But as always he, being son of Tiana the Traitor, was the one punished. He could just picture Jahan now, stretched across dozens of silk cushions being fanned and hand fed by a half dozen attendants as he recovered from whatever it was that struck both of them ill. Khalid, however, would have to make do with this hard carriage bench and a stale heel of bread without even a drop of milk to soften it.

He checked the bag for anything else; a change of clothes, but he was too tired and sore still, and the thought of changing into fresh clothes exhausted him. There was an apricot, too; he consumed it greedily, letting the juice run down his chin. He wondered if they had the fruit where his grandfather lived. Doubtful; while most of what he learned about the place was suspect, he knew it was colder than Almyra, and less crops grew well in that land.

He wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve; it was filthy already from him sweating out the pollen's effects. The bag with the clothes still inside made a decent pillow, and he stretched out on the bench as comfortably as he can. They should be far enough away from the checkpoint now, so he ventured to call out. "Hamza, I'm going back to sleep. I hope you can drive well enough that I don't fall again. I am still a prince, don't forget that." There was no answer, but he wasn't expecting one. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, he would have to start becoming Claude von Riegan. But for now at least, he could have one last dream as Khalid of the Traitor's Blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude comes to Derdriu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: some casual racism near the end of the chapter.

It took three days to go from the border to Derdriu; three long days of abject boredom. The carriage door stayed locked, and Hamza only spoke to him in brief spurts when she brought him his meals. After the first day she changed out of her holy woman's costume and into a white silk blouse and matching pants; she looked so much like his mother if his mother had been Almyran. "No one is to see you until we get to the Riegan palace," she said on the second day when he complained. "You should be resting, anyway. You almost died, you idiot boy." And then she locked him in once again, and Khalid was left alone with his supper of fish and boiled potatoes. 

"Is there at least a book I could read?" He said to her at the noon meal break on the first day. "Could you look in my things?"

"There's not, I don't need to look. I packed your chest myself, and Tiana was very explicit that all you were to take was your journal and some suitable clothes for Fodlan." He sighed when she shut the door and the lock jangled. "If you're bored, count the number of trees we pass." He'd braided his hair instead, then unbraided it, and braided it twice more before it looked the way he liked.

"I could sharpen your knives," he said on the third day as he lay on the carriage floor and examined the way the light played over the interior. It was an interesting sensation to feel the carriage rock from down here, and he still had not changed out of the sweat stained clothes so he needn't worry about the dust and dirt on the floor. "Or I could tell you exactly how I'm related to the first Almyran king. I can recite back twenty generations."

She sighed, loud enough he could hear it. The carriage rumbled to a stop. The familiar clatter of her climbing from the driver's box, but he did not hear her boots as she walked toward the carriage door. Instead, he distinctly heard her footfalls moving away. Perhaps he had gone too far, and she was going to leave him to rot. Hopefully her love for his mother was enough to change her mind and come back.

Footsteps coming back, but slowly. He tensed; had she been injured? He stood up and went to pull the curtains, but the lock jangled, and the door opened. Hamza was there, a tub of water at her feet. "Help me get this inside," she said, and together they lifted it into the narrow space between the benches. "Wash, quickly, and change your clothes. You smell like a stable." She passed him a cloth for washing and a bar of soap. The door shut again.

He stripped and tossed his soiled clothes into a corner of the carriage; they were unsalvageable at this point. He dipped his hands into the water and hissed. "It's cold."

"There's no time to heat it. I want to get you to the palace by nightfall. Just scrub, I'm sure the heir of the Riegan Dukedom can request as many hot baths as he wishes. All I care about is if you look somewhat presentable for your grandfather." A pause. "If I don't hear water splashing soon, I'll come in there and wash you myself."

"I'm going." He gritted his teeth and dipped the cloth into the cold water. He scrubbed quickly; his hair would have to wait until a proper bath, but at least he could get the worst of the sweat and dirt off his skin. It did feel good to be somewhat clean and put on fresh clothes, even if they were strange Fodlan clothes that fitted tighter than he was used to. "All right, I'm done."

The door opened, and he helped her take the tub from the carriage. She gave him a critical inspection once the tub was dumped out beside the road. "Passable," she commented before shutting the door again. There was no clink of the lock before her boots thumped against the side of the driver's box. The all familiar snap of the reins, and they were underway. 

He opened the curtains and looked out; so this was Derdriu. The Aquatic Capital, a grand title; it certainly had a certain romantic charm in an exotic way. But no, this was not a city of dreams for him. Here, he would be Claude von Riegan; a lie, a fiction, fake as the air of romance the gondoliers and the street vendors tried to cultivate as they worked their trades. Still, he found himself swayed by the beauty of the canals winding their way through the city, the delicate spires of marble reaching skyward. It had to be the isolation making him lose his senses.

They moved slowly down the broad street, but he didn't mind; it gave him a chance to study the people. The men in tunics and hose, women in dresses that gathered at the waist. There were few people in much more elaborate clothes with rows of buttons and stiff collars; nobles or merchants. Soldiers wore full plate or leathers. Most carried swords, though he was pleasantly surprised to see a good number of archers among the ranks.

They passed through the gates into the Riegan palace. It was an impressive structure, he gave it that. Perhaps it would be worth it to be Duke Riegan some day. He could be quite comfortable in that lie if it meant this was his to do what he will. At the very least there would be no Jahan walking into his private rooms and wrecking all his plans.

They came to a stop. He waited, and the door opened. At last, Claude stepped out of the carriage that had been his prison for the last half week on trembling legs, and he looked around the courtyard. Three men in what he assumed were servants' uniforms waited, and the one in front addressed Hamza. "This is him? We were expecting someone taller." The man reached forward and took Claude's wrist in hand and pushed up his sleeve to reveal the crescent moon mark on his arm.

"This is Claude, yes." She waited half a moment before she spoke again. "You'll take the boy from here? There's a boat waiting at harbor for me."

"Yes, I suppose we will." The servant still roved a critical eye over him; he felt grossly inadequate, so much so wasn't sure exactly what he was lacking. "The carriage?"

"A present from Tiana to the duke, for his troubles." With a curt nod, she began to walk away.

Never had he felt such a panic; the last thread of his life was fraying before his eyes. Alone, utterly alone; well, he had been lonely most of his childhood, so this wouldn't be different than home in that way at least. He turned to the attendants with what he hoped was a winsome smile. "I'm very eager to meet my grandfather. I've heard loads of stories about him from my mother." A lie, but he would do his best to ingratiate himself and make the best of this awful situation.

The lead servant tisked. "Take him for a bath, and fetch a barber." His clothes were examined as well with that same critical eye. "There's no time for a tailor, but perhaps we can find something presentable in Lord Godfrey's closet."

It chafed, the way he talked as if Claude wasn't right there. "Hey, don't I get a say in all this? What if I don't want my hair cut, or to wear Lord Whoever's old clothes?"

The servant blinked, long slow fluttering of eyelashes. "No, you don't, Master Claude." The two flanking servants walked forward and now stood on either side of him. He considered his options; he could possibly fight them off but he was unsure the level of training Fodlander servants receive in martial arts, and it wouldn't exactly make a good first impression on his maternal grandfather if he grievously injured his steward in a courtyard scrap. 

Best course of action would be the one of least resistance, so he allowed himself to be escorted to a set of finely dressed rooms on the palace's third floor. A bath was already prepared, the steam enticing. The servants began to help him remove his clothing; even this he didn't bother to protest, even if he hated the feel of their hands on him, the helplessness of having someone else take off his shirt and trousers. At least they looked away to give him some privacy to remove his underclothes and waited to look his way again until after he had sunk into the hot water. Unlike the baths back home that were always scented with sandalwood or myrrh, he smelled something floral. He wanted very dearly to gag at the overwhelming perfume of rose and lilac. "I can wash myself, thank you," he said before they could even think of putting their hands on his skin again.

A door open and shut, and a man in a leather apron came around the side of the tub. under his arm was a roll of leather tied fast. "This is what we have to work with?" He made the same tsking noise as the butler had, and he put his hand on Claude's chin to force him to turn his head. The man looked at his hair, still huffing. "The braids will have to come out," he said definitively, and the other attendants came forward as he backed away to set the roll on a table. The clatter of metal as it was unrolled. Hands in his hair, unlacing his hair from the braids he'd worked so diligently on. "His hair will have to be washed, too, so I can see what I'm working with."

"I can wash myself," he protested again when someone reached for a pitcher to douse his hair; he hoped he sounded more commanding than he felt.

A chuckle came from the barber. "Marcel did warn me that you have a stubborn streak." 

Braids gone, Claude submerged his head into the bath briefly; anything to escape those hands on him. He watched the barber work as he scrubbed. Razors, delicate scissors, a strop to sharpen. Perhaps this man could be persuaded. "What's the current fashion in Derdriu?"

"Short," came a curt reply. Perhaps not, then. He turned, scissors in hand. "Hurry, your grandfather isn't a patient man. I would hate to be you if he decided to come here instead and you met the Duke Riegan without a stitch on."

"Can you all look away while I get out, at least?" A chuckle again, but at least they again gave him the courtesy of privacy as he rinsed off the soap and heaved himself out of the bath. The towels had been warmed; small mercies. There was a cotton robe, too, and he pulled that over his shoulders and tied it. There was a chair waiting, and he sat down. "All right, let's get this over with."

At least the barber had gentle hands as he examined his field of battle. "It curls even after washing. Pity." Claude closed his eyes at the first snip. 

He heard comings and goings as the barber worked, fabric rustling and the clipping of the scissors his only clues to his fate. He heard the butler Marcel talking; apparently he had taken a place beside him, and he felt the touch of cloth on his jaw from time to time. "No, not that won't do at all." After the third time this was said, Marcel sighed. "Why does he have to be so _dark_?"

Claude blushed with his mouth falling open at the remark. Him, dark? All his childhood being teased for being light-skinned, and now, he felt a new shame because of his color. "I look good in gold and white," he said.

"Hrm, it would be a bit much to put you in the color of the Leicester Alliance for your first meeting, but I suppose it can't be helped."

Finally, the snipping stopped. He opened his eyes, and the barber examined his work. "Passable." That seemed to be the best he was going to get from anyone today. 

A set of clothes was shoved into his hands without ceremony by Marcel, who gestured toward a corner of the room hidden by a pair of folding screens. "Since the young master insists on doing everything himself." This felt like a trap, but he would take what grace he was allowed.

The underclothes were simple enough to put on, straightforward in their workings. The trousers as well, even if he disliked how the fabric hugged his thighs; wyvern riding took considerable muscle and Fodlander trousers were cut narrow. But the shirt and coat had too many fastenings and it took him several minutes to figure out how it was all meant to be put together. This was tight, too; how did anyone stand being dressed in such confining clothes for even an hour?

After the last button was done, he looked at himself in the mirror; a stranger stared back, a stranger with hair so short it had no chance to curl, jacket buttoned all the way up, pressing almost painfully against his voicebox with every swallow. _Nice to meet you, Claude von Riegan_.

Marcel's eyes were critical when he stepped himself out from behind the screen. Hands took his collar and adjusted, and he felt some relief as it was folded properly. Then the gaze fixed itself on his ear. "That will have to go." _Right_. One hand held out, expectant.

Claude reached and twisted the earring out, and then stuck it into his jacket pocket with a smile. _Damned if I let them make all of me disappear_. He gestured to the door. "If I'm presentable, I'd like to meet my grandfather now."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude meets Oswald von Riegan.

He definitely felt a fluttering of nerves as Marcel knocked on the door to what he was told was Grandfather Riegan's study. Two weeks ago he had been chased down at three alleyways and a series of rooftops by a half dozen of his more vindictive cousins after they woke up from an unexpected two day nap; it wasn't his fault they had stolen _that_ particular pouch from his tea stores. Now that seemed an eon ago as he stood before the dark oak door, the last barrier between him and a grandfather he had always wanted to meet. "Enter."

The door opened. A large writing desk dominated the space, surrounded by overflowing bookshelves and lamps. To be honest, he had never really known what to expect Grandfather Riegan to look like; his grandfather the king was a boisterous man despite his shock-white hair and deeply lined face, a man with so many grandchildren he frequently forgot their names to the point that they all looked when he called for an Ali of Fatimah. But this man was different; his hair was white and his skin lined much the same, but there was a frailness to him, and Claude couldn't quite pinpoint the source of that impression. He didn't look up from the letter he was writing. "Grandfather Riegan."

"Come in and shut the door. Have a seat." The door shut firmly behind him, and they were alone. At least the chair was comfortable. He caught a knee with his clasped hands and waited. There were stacks of correspondence on the desk and an open book of what looked to be scripture. Several minutes passed before the man set down his pen and set the letter aside to dry. At last, he looked up, fingers lacing together as he set his hands on the desk. Strange; he could see a shadow of his mother there, but was missing himself reflected in the old man on the other side of the desk. "So you're my grandson."

"Yes, sir."

His eyes examined Claude, but instead of that open disdain of the servants, there was only curiosity. "Your mother explained?" He nodded. "Say something." 

He blinked. "I, ah, what would you have me say?"

A smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "No accent, that's promising. Tell me your education."

"I've studied history, mathematics, geography, military tactics, literature, flying and riding, archery, and the axe." His side interest in flora could perhaps be a topic of discussion for when they knew each other better.

"No sword lessons?" He shook his head, and his grandfather sighed. "Well, that will have to be rectified. Tomorrow, you'll meet your tutors, and you'll begin lessons in history and religion. We'll get a tailor in to take measurements for some better fitting clothes. Chapel service are on Sundays, so make sure to learn some hymns. Marcel!" His voice boomed suddenly; Claude jumped. The door opened. "Send word to the arms master, I'll need a sword master to give the young man lessons." A noise of assent, and the door was shut again.  


His grandfather stood up and walked around the desk; that sense that this man was frailer than he appeared persisted, but again, Claude was at a loss to account for it. "Where is it? Your Crest."

"Oh." He fumbled with the buttons on his sleeve, and rolled it up to show the crescent moon. Riegan took his wrist; his skin felt dry and papery. His thumb traced the lines, and Claude felt a tingle and the familiar warmth as it glowed faintly in the wake of his grandfather's touch. "Do you have this mark, too?" Something told him he already knew the answer.

Grandfather smiled and let his arm go. "Yes, here," he put a hand to his chest, over one of his lungs. "But mine's the Major Crest." _Whatever that means._ The smile slipped into a frown. "I know your mother told you to keep it secret, but here you will need to prove it time and again. Here, you know what you must keep secret?" Claude nodded. "Good, at least you have some sense. But be aware, boy, that I haven't decided to announce you as my heir yet. Prove yourself smart enough to run this duchy and the Alliance, and I'll consider it." He tapped the desk with two fingers. "To think that the Leicester Alliance could be led by an Almyran prince."

"I'm also half Fodlander, don't forget."

A chuckle. "The Gonerils and the Gloucesters won't give two figs about that as they undercut you at every turn." He walked back around the desk and sat down. "You're dismissed. Supper will be brought to your rooms tonight, but tomorrow, you and I will begin eating together." He folded the letter and began to drip warmed wax into the folds to seal it.

Claude walked back to his rooms with a servant at the lead. There was more there than his grandfather had said; he could appreciate a man who could hold secrets back. He could learn from him, even if Claude eventually found his way back in Almyra dodging vengeful cousins that waited on every corner. 

With the door closed behind him, he was alone in his rooms. The sun was setting, and a fire had already been lit in the hearth. He would be interrupted when his meal came, but for now, he could explore this small kingdom of his. Heavy velvet drapes, dark wood, sheepskin rugs. None of it really suited him, but it would do for now; after all, if he failed to impress his grandfather, he would only be here a few months, a year at most. He wandered, half-aimless, fussing with buttons on his jacket.

A desk faced one of the windows; he opened the drawers, disappointed only to find paper, wax, a pen and ink, all new. No hidden drawers, no _secrets_. Dull. Tomorrow when the light was better, he would examine the wallpaper and behind the tapestries for evidence of hidden passages in the walls.

His chest had been left at the foot of the bed, unlocked. That would have to change as soon as he could procure a lock. It was a plain and unadorned box, unlike the one he usually travelled with decorated with a crescent moon over a scene of caravans crossing the desert. He opened it; just what had Hamza packed?

Winter nightclothes were folded neatly in rows, smelling of sandalwood; that was it. None of it was acceptable to wear in public. He sighed and blew out his cheeks. He would just have to get used to these Fodlander clothes.

There at the bottom was his journal. He picked it up, enjoying the feel of the soft calfskin cover under his hands. It felt heavier than it ought; he shook it over the now crumpled bedshifts, grinning as a dozen gold coins fell out from between the pages. A paper fell out as well, creased sharp. He ignored the coins and picked up the letter from his father. "Your mother is more worried about you than she claims. If you need to come home, book a passage on the first Almyran ship you find in the harbor, we'll work it out somehow. You have a good head on your shoulders; use it well." No name, typical of Papa.

He missed them; he missed his mother's fierce stare when she sparred with him, how his father would send him cryptic maps that usually led to some unusual plant or mushroom in a tacit approval of what most considered Claude's most unsavory interest. They loved him, in their own ways; sending him away had been an act of the deepest love, and it made him miss them all the more.

A knock on the door, and he shut the chest before indicating they could enter. Servants came in, unloading the trays in silence before retreating again. He was hungry; with everything he had forgotten to attend to his needs. A thick soup, vegetables in a butter sauce, and a mince pie waited along with a half decanter of red wine. Good wine, too, he noted with a sip. Perhaps grandfather had the other half decanter and was drinking it now, alone in his own rooms. An odd thought.

He had carried the journal with him to the table, and considered it while he ate. Ever since he had started a journal, he had written in Fodlandic to keep it away from prying eyes; of all his cousins, he was the only one that knew the language. He supposed now he ought to write in Almyran now if he wanted to keep his secrets. And locked in his chest, most certainly.

Once he had finished the meal and the wine, he felt his head begin to droop. It had been a long week, and even though he had done nothing but lounge in a carriage for most of it, he felt exhausted. But there was still things to be done, so he carried himself to the desk and set the ink and pen on the surface. Journal open, ink uncapped, he marked the date, and began to write. "I'm missing a week it seems, and there is much to tell."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude goes looking for trouble.

In the palace where he grew up, there were ten children of his grandfather the king; four daughters and six sons, all married save two who had taken religious orders. Those aunts and uncles had children, and in all, the Almyran royal family totaled forty seven, all of whom lived in the same sprawling complex. Some were more important than others, but he was most definitely not one of them, and in such a pell-mell collection of people, it was easy to get overlooked.

For many years, Khalid resented Jahan and all the attention being the crown prince to the crown prince afforded that donkey-eared son of a viper. Most of the cousins felt the same; to be quite honest, the only ones that did not were Jahan's own siblings who shared that same rarefied air. Any petty squabbles between the others and Uncle Habib's children would inevitably be settled in favor of the crown family, no matter who had the bloodied lip or personal effects stolen. 

One week in Grandfather Riegan's care cured him of all jealousy forever. Never in the whole of his life had Claude found himself the center of attention in this way; bless it all, words could not convey how much he _despised_ it. From waking until after supper someone was always there to keep him on task and on schedule. He was shuffled from tutor to tutor, from training to supper. Servants with silver pocket watches came to him in between and escorted him around the palace after the most perfunctory of bows and polite words.

Even after supper and he was allowed some privacy, the time was not his own; his tutors had piled books into his room on the first day, and even with lessons he was expected to read in preparation for the next day. More than once the servants found him the next morning still in yesterday's clothes using a textbook as a pillow. It was strange and discomforting to be under such constant scrutiny, and he resented it.

Strangest of all were his nightly meetings with Grandfather. He had been expecting questions about his lessons and training, but the first evening Grandfather asked him the question that he would start their every conversation with. They tucked into some sort of fowl with a berry glaze, the man looked at him from the other side of the dining table. "Well, what did you see today?"

"I saw the training grounds, and a classroom here in the palace."

A chuckle. "No, Claude. Tiana said you have sharp eyes, tell me what you noticed."

This gave him pause, and he thought back to the day. "One of the footmen is missing a button on his jacket. Bottom left."

"Marcel noticed, too. What else?"

"Some of the maids were pulling tapestries down from a side hall as we passed, and I heard a rip. I wasn't looking so I don't know which one."

"It will be repaired."

"Fodlan axes have a different look than what I've seen. I would like to receive training on that as well."

His grandfather's lips pressed together tight, and he shook his head. "The axe is the Gonerils' area of expertise. You'll keep up with your bow and sword lessons."

 _That's not the real reason_. But Claude was content to let it lie there, at least for the first night. Their dinners continued on as such, and he made sure to find something of interest to tell. He probed his grandfather at times with his observations and took note of omissions or deflections by the old man; of those, there were plenty to be observed.

Well, if his grandfather could keeps secrets, so could he. Once he had been fitted in a proper suit of clothes by the tailor, it was obvious how some of the maids watched him. He had seen it in Almyra, too, the way people looked at him as he grew older and he began to feel those sorts of feelings himself. If there were footmen who looked at him that way, they kept it well hidden. In a way, he enjoyed the irony that the same thing so many teased him as a child for also made him highly desirable now; more than one warrior's daughter had pursued him simply because her parents forbade her from mixing with "the Traitor's whelp."

He paid attention to which maids' eyes lingered a bit too long on his form as he passed and which of those women he found attractive. Eventually he would have some spare time to himself to explore without the constant escort, and perhaps he could find himself in the company of a pretty girl instead of the sour-faced tutors that filled his days.

His chance came the end of the week; Sundays were split between prayer in the morning and then an afternoon for "rest." So Claude found himself seated in the front pew of the palace's small chapel beside his grandfather. As with everything, Grandfather was serious about his prayers, and the rest of the house followed his lead in singing hymns and listening to the priestess' sermon with hands folded in supplication. 

Across the aisle was one of the maids he'd noticed watching him; her gazes were a bit more bold and lingered longer compared to the others. Their eyes met during the hymns; he dared a wink, and she rolled her eyes back, but clearly pleased at catching his attention. _Perfect_. Now he just had to figure out how to talk to her to set up a meeting.

Lucky, then, that he found himself standing behind her as they queued to leave. A glance around; his grandfather was talking to the priestess, far away. He tried not to be too obvious as he leaned forward, just a bit. "What's your name?"

"Isabeau." Her response was short, but there was an amusement she was almost successful in concealing. "You're Master Claude, don't bother introducing yourself."

He chuckled, and dared to step a bit closer than was polite as they continued to float in the lazy river of parishioners. "I'll be at the main gate in a half an hour. I'd like to take a walk around the palace. Where will you be?"

"Where ever I feel like it." She adjusted the veil draped over her hair. "Perhaps I'll also be at the main gate." She paused. "You know, the stables are the most interesting part of the palace."

She was direct; he liked that. "Is that so? I've yet to visit."

Once he was free of the chapel, it was only a quick walk back to his rooms. It only took a bit of smoothing out his hair and quick rinse of his face, and he was satisfied with his appearance. No one was there to stop him, no attendants waiting to ambush him, so he walked out of the palace, his pace more nonchalant than he felt. _Freedom_.

Isebeau beat him to the meeting place; she, too, still wore her church clothes, minus the veil. She appraised him as he came near, and he felt a thrill at her eyes on him. "We should go to the stables directly," she said by way of greeting, and began walking before he could answer. He grinned; as much as he enjoyed the chase, it felt good to get it over with so quickly.

They found an empty stall, and she kissed him before he could even say anything; never had he dallied with something this intent on getting right to the point. Perhaps he was considered handsomer in Fodlan than he was in Almyra, or perhaps she had a thing for green eyes. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to be kissing, and he put his hands on her, determined to be just as bold as her. Her fingers were deft in working the buttons of his jacket loose, and she made soft sighs when he kissed her exposed neck or grabbed her hips. So much the better; he preferred this over the shy ones who had never done this before, the ones who tried to pretend they had none of _those_ kinds of feelings.

She whimpered as he pushed her against the stable wall; they were still mostly clothed with only his jacket discarded, but that would need to change, and quickly. "They say you bear the Riegan Crest," she whispered as he sucked on her shoulder.

"They, who? The other servants?" He chuckled. "It's true, but it doesn't really matter all that much to me." He began to paw at her skirts to get underneath.

Her voice took on a sultry, breathy quality that made him shudder. "Such a strange thing for a nobleman to say."

"I'm the strangest noble you'll find in all Fodlan, I guarantee you."

Her laugh was like chimes in the wind, and he felt those deft hands reach for his belt. Someone coughed behind them. Claude turned around; Gods, of course it had to be Marcel. He had that same cool disapprobation on his features that he had learned to be Marcel's typical expression. "Master Claude, come with me. Duke Riegan would like a word. Miss Charbonneau, meet me in Miss Beaumont's room after I escort the young master."

 _Well_ , _it was good while it lasted._ He'd made it a whole week; he blushed at the thought of his mother's face when he arrived back home after only a week of being in his grandfather's care. Oh, she would make light of this longer than he had been here. He followed Marcel, still trying to button his jacket as they walked. "Pick up your feet. The duke's time is precious, even on Sundays."

Instead of the office or the dining room, he found himself in front of his grandfather's personal quarters. Marcel knocked. "Your Grace, might we come in?"

"Of course." The door opened. Claude found his arm in a death grip as Marcel maneuvered him inside. Grandfather was on a sofa by the fire, a book in hand and a pot of tea on the table beside him. His eyes examined Claude, who blushed when the old man chuckled. "Isabeau?"

"Yes, your Grace."

The old man sighed. "I leave it to Miss Beaumont's discretion, then." He waved his hand. Marcel bowed and left. Grandfather patted the cushion beside him. "Come here, Claude."

He sat down, and before the old man could speak, he blurted, "I didn't mean to, I mean-"

"My boy." He stopped stammering and waited for his grandfather to continue. "I don't imagine to know what your upbringing was before you came here. I do know my daughter, your mother, was never the affectionate sort, not in the typical way, anyway. She had an independent, stubborn streak in her almost from birth. Knowing that, I can imagine she left you to your own devices most of the time." He smiled. "Even as a prince, you're not a very important one, yes?"

Claude blinked. This was not how he expected this conversation to go; by now he ought to be packing his things. "My cousin the crown prince has even more freedom than me."

The old man chuckled. "And how has he turned out? Blaming others for his mistakes, including when he's caught coming into your private room to steal Goddess knows what. What kind of king will he make lacking any fetters on his behavior, I wonder." Claude allowed himself to smile. "My point is that you must learn a kind of caution in your conduct. Everyone will want something from you because of who you are."

He frowned. "We were just having a bit of fun, that's all."

A hand reached out and took Claude's. Buttons undone, his grandfather exposed the mark, and they watched the shimmer as his fingers traced. "This is everything in Fodlan. If you didn't have this mark, I wouldn't dream of making you my heir. One day, one of your children may bear the same mark, and it would be expected that child would be your heir."

Now he really felt the fool; she had _known_. His heart was somewhere in the vicinity of his navel with that thought. "I'm sorry, Grandfather."

"What you do with your free time is your business, my boy, but the first girl who comes to me with a child who bears this mark will become your wife. Do you understand?" He nodded, and his grandfather released his hand. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small purse. "Your monthly allowance. Might I suggest seeing the town next Sunday instead of the stables?"

It was surprisingly heavy. "Thank you."

Another chuckle, and he picked up his book. "You're free to go. I'll let Marcel know that we will be dining separately tonight, since I think we've had our talk for today."

"Until tomorrow then, Grandfather." He let his feet carry him back to his rooms, his head full. But, he was still allowed to stay in Derdriu from now; perhaps the goddess was real and performed miracles. None of the Almyran deities have ever done him a favor this large before.

He settled himself onto a sofa before the fire in the sitting room; he had enough adventures for the week, and he needed to think. This truly was another world, full of dangers he had never considered. No one was likely to poison him here, but there were traps all the same. He needed allies, people he could turn to when he failed to account for to the social niceties of this strange land.

 _Seek out Judith von Daphnel._ He remembered the house name from his geography lessons, and went to the bookshelf to find the textbook with maps. There it was; Daphnel territory wasn't too far from them, really. More than a half day out, however, so he would have to come up with something very clever to meet this strange woman his mother seemed confident would help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, when I started this, I thought I would write Claude's grandfather to be a lot harsher with him, but I think he turned out rather well. 
> 
> Next chapter: Enter Judith.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Judith make a deal.

Claude von Riegan needn't have worried about finding a way to meet Judith without attracting attention; she found him first. There he was, trying not to nod off as his history tutor Apollin explained, in great and unnecessary detail, how the Nabateans built a city in Zanado, when he was saved by a knock on the door. Aaron, the attendant usually tasked with escorting and feeding Claude, entered the room and bowed. "Apologies, but his Grace has a visitor and has asked for Master Claude."

Apollin marked their place and shut the history textbook with a sigh. "We'll pick this up tomorrow. Don't keep the Duke waiting."

 _Just what kind of visitor would his grandfather want him to meet?_ Another Leicester noble, perhaps one of the others on the counsel; old men like his grandfather, he knew that much. If so, he'd simper and smile and see how much time he could stay involved; anything to avoid more of Apollin's dry voice discoursing on a long dead race of goddess babies.

He heard voices as they approached the door. "-course you've conveniently had business in Derdriu just in time for the roundtable conference."

"I'm just here for a delivery I'm expecting, Oswald," a woman replied. "Some of your customs inspectors have sticky fingers."

"You have a port in Daphnel." He couldn't believe his luck, and he made a mental note to light a second candle during chapel. Aaron knocked. "You may enter."

His grandfather was at his desk as always, but he instead looked at the woman who sat on the other side of the desk; she was his mother's age with long dark hair held in place by clever braidwork. She watched him, too, sharp blue eyes missing nothing. "Claude, my boy, this is Judith von Daphnel. She's one of the lords of the Leicester Alliance."

He bowed. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Daphnel."

She chuckled. "He's got pretty manners, doesn't he? How long will he be staying?"

His grandfather sighed. "Judith."

"He really is Tiana's boy, I can see it in his face." She turned around; he wondered what her expression was as she squared off against his grandfather. "I'll be in Derdriu a few days. I would like to give him some personal lessons in swordplay. Unless you object."

Was he imagining it, or was Grandfather smiling? "If I say no, I'm sure you'll find some other way to worm your way into a private conversation with him." His eyes fixed on Claude. "Let the swordmaster know that he will not be training you for the rest of the week." He nodded, but Grandfather had already moved on to stare at Judith again. "Was that all you came to the city for, Lady Daphnel, or do you have other business with me?"

"For the moment, that's all." She stood up and walked to the door. "Come along, boy. It's time you had a proper sword lesson." His grandfather was already busy with some paperwork on his desk, so Claude followed her to the training grounds.

Once he had switched into leather training gear and selected one of the blunted swords, he found Judith waiting for him, one foot tapping on the hard-packed earth. They were alone; he wondered if she had chased the others out so they could do this privately. She smiled as he set himself into the beginning stance, and drew her sword with a nonchalant grace. "Try to land a hit." He sized her up, watching a moment, and then he swung.

She parried with that same seeming carelessness, but it was _fast_. A grin as he swung again, caught again by her parry. They danced like this for a time with him attacking, Judith defending. He noticed, however, that despite her continued lack of offense, he was the one giving up ground. _How in the six hells is she doing that?_

Stupid, stupid; the moment he thought it, his concentration broke, and she was on him, a couple light steps to the left to avoid his overhead swing. He was exposed, and braced for the smack of her sword against his shoulder blades that sent him sprawling into the dirt. She laughed. "You fight with a sword like the first time you picked one up was a week ago." A hand in his face, and he allowed her to help him to his feet.

"Last week was the first time I held a sword."

"Well, then, your form is superb, _Master_ Claude." Her eyes twinkled at her own private joke. "Here. Let me show you." He took his training sword from her, and then she positioned herself at his back, moving limbs into position. "Unlike the axe, which takes strength, the sword requires more speed and finesse. Even someone skinny like you can fell the strongest opponent with a well-timed sword thrust."

"Or I could do it from the back of the formation with a bow." His arm already ached from holding the sword out the way she positioned him.

"You won't always have that kind of luck in a battle. Look at your grandfather, he always has to be the public front of unity for the Leicester Alliance, no matter how much it threatens to shatter into pieces around him." She pushed his foot with her own into a wider stance. Her voice said very softly in his ear, "Two days from now, the roundtable conference will take place. All the ruling lords of Leicester and some of their heirs will be in attendance. You, however, will not be permitted to attend."

He made sure his voice matched hers when he answered, "Because I'm not the heir yet."

"Correct. Show me a slash." He obeyed, and she adjusted his grip to try again. "But I can help you convince your grandfather to make you the heir."

He grunted as he swung again; this would require a completely different series of callouses than the axe or bow. "And what's in it for you?"

"You're smart, so you really must be Tiana's boy. Godfrey may have been noble, but he was an idiot." He laughed, and she took the sword from him. "That's enough for one day."

The continued to talk in low voices as they worked to put the training gear away. "You knew my mother."

Judith laughed. "We went to the academy together. Is she still hotheaded and brash?" He nodded, and she chuckled again. "Best brawler in our year." She glanced around; they were alone. She pulled a letter from her jacket and handed it over. "It arrived two days ago."

There was no name on the letter. He turned it over to look at the seal; yellow ribbon and a dried chamomile daisy were trapped under the wax. "Thank you."

She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Behave for the Duke while the other lords are here. He'll have enough on his plate without you causing a stir, too." They parted at that, him to his rooms, Judith to places unknown.

Alone, he shrugged off his jacket and boots to do a proper flop onto the chaise by the fire. He cracked the wax, heedless of the bits that fell onto the cushions; that he could clean up later. There was his mother's hand, bold as always; the date shows it was written a couple days after his accident. "My crescent moon," she began. "There wasn't much time to write you a letter before we put you on a wyvern with Hamza, so I wanted to write you something a bit longer, even though I know it will be difficult for you to get a letter back. Soon, things should be settled enough and we can risk it. Until then, I'll continue sending letters through Judith, until we know more about your situation in Derdriu. She and I were good friends in school, and I know she won't mind the excuse to come to the city more often.

"Jahan survived, of course. I'm sure that news will bring you great joy-" he snorted; Mother could be awfully sarcastic when she wanted. "-but it has brought a sense of relief to the household now that his fever has broken. I can only imagine how much worse it was for you, especially while you and Hamza flew to the western border to buy a carriage to carry you across the border. Did you behave for her, by the by? I hope so. I will know if you were difficult.

"By the time you get this letter, I'm sure you'll have met your grandfather. He is a good man, even if he is very demanding. However, my son, you are more than equal to the task of impressing him, and I have little doubt he will not agree to make you the heir of Riegan if that is what your heart desires. All things come with a cost, my crescent moon, don't forget that. Make sure the rewards you imagine outweigh the uglier consequences of being Duke Riegan.

"Your father sends his love, and the next couple pages are his contribution to our letter. You know how he is.

"Much love, Tiana."

He flipped the page, and laughed. His father had drawn what he was sure was a faithful rendition of the scene that led to his exile. "The Vile Poisoning Attempt of Khalid of the Traitor's Blood," was scribbled in the corner. Both he and Jahan sprawled on the floor with stars circling their heads; however, a half dozen soothsayers and sobbing servants surrounded Jahan while the depiction of himself was being stepped on by a very good likeness of Uncle Habib.

The second drawing gave him pause; a wyvern whelp curled in on itself, sleeping. _Marmoulak_. He caressed the page, feeling regret. They had just gotten past that trying phase between handler and wyvern, and she had become quite attached to him in the last few weeks. He could only hope when he came home she would remember him. He folded the letter and stood to put it away in his chest.

The flower made him wish for some tea, so he set the kettle on the fire and waited at the window, watching the harbor bustle. How he ached for the twisting alleys he knew better than anyone, the midday heat that played tricks on the eyes; all that conversation with Judith seemed stupid now. Why would he ever want to be Duke Riegan when he had so much waiting back home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marmoulak=Lizard or The Lizard.
> 
> More Judith next week! I wasn't expecting to write this much about Claude and Judith's relationship, but it couldn't be helped to flesh out the story later.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude uncovers a mystery.

He never expected to find something of interest in his religion lessons; sure, he'd play the devout grandson at chapel services to please his grandfather, but how could anyone really believe that some goddess fell from the heavens with the sole reason to bless the land of Fodlan with fertile land and children born of her blood? Those kinds of questions he kept firmly behind his teeth when faced with his religion tutor; Cerise was a thin, nervous sort of woman whose voice trembled when she uttered the names of the saints. He was concerned she might fall completely to pieces if he questioned the motives of the goddess. Other questions, however, ought to be safe.

Today they covered the War of Heroes, and her voice quavered quite a bit as she explained the finer points of Crest manifestation in the Saints and the Elites. "Each of the Elites and the Saints gained extraordinary powers gifted to them by the Goddess. With each Crest comes a Relic that only the Crest bearer can use." She tapped the table to focus his attention. "What are the names of the Ten Elites?"

He sighed and began to tick the names off with his fingers. "Lamine, Blaiddyd, Daphnel, Riegan, Fraldarius, Charon, Dominic, Gautier, Goneril, and Gloucester." Noble houses all, save Lamine. Curious that the Hresvelg name was absent from that list. "I have a question." She beamed at him, a rare sight. "Why would Seiros allow those who rebelled against the Goddess to live after the war and become nobles?"

Her smile was gone in an instant. "They were still blessed by the Goddess and were made to see the error of their ways."

He frowned. Everyone but Nemesis was spared; it made no sense. "So what happened to the Sword of the Creator after the war? I mean, no one's seen it since, so how do we even know it or the other Relics existed?" The other Relics were nothing to the fanciful tales of a sword so powerful it could cut mountains.

Never would he have imagined someone's face turning that shade of violet, but he was saved from any lecturing by the appearance of Aaron with his lunch. Cerise slipped away, still quite red; perhaps he had overdone it, and he considered the consequences as he tucked into his meal of some kind of roasted game and sweet potatoes. No doubt someone would lecture him later, even if it was just Cerise during his next lesson.

If he was not to get the answers he sought from lessons, he would have to find them on his own. The books provided couldn't be trusted to do anything but parrot the official church line, but where could he find the information he sought without catching hell from the church, Cerise or, most importantly, his grandfather? He would have to think on it when he had more time.

Afternoons were for training, and he was only mildly surprised to find Judith in place of the weapons master. "Boy."

"Judith." She clicked her tongue, and he gave her a cheeky grin. "I take it no bow lessons again today?"

"Your form is passable for your age, as you well know. You can take a couple days off from it." She watched him chose a practice sword. "You picked that one yesterday, too."

Claude blinked; even the weapons master hadn't noticed his preference. "It's heavier than the others." He was too used to axes, and the other swords were uncomfortably light in his hands.

She laughed, easing into a starting position. He mirrored her, and they stood opposite one another. "Same as yesterday, show me what you remember." They circled each other a moment, and then he struck. Easily caught. "Not bad."

He swung again, testing her reflexes; the best fighter back home would envy the lightness of her step and the finesse of her movements. "Do you have a Crest?"

She shook her head. "The Daphnel house hasn't produced one in a century or so."

"What even is the point of a Crest? It's just a birthmark, isn't it?" Judith grinned and for the first time, went on the offensive, and he yelped as the flat of her blade smacked against each of his thighs before he could even think to defend himself. A third sweep of her sword knocked his out of his hand, and he was left to rub his stinging fingers. "Ow."

Judith picked up his sword off the ground. "Where's your mark, boy? Show me."

Mother wasn't lying when she wrote the damned thing was everything in Fodlan, and he wondered if he ought to live with his sleeve rolled up. "What would you do if it was in a place I'd rather not expose in the training grounds?"

She laughed and pinched his cheek; he grumbled. "Then you'd just have to take my word on this." She handed him his sword back once his sleeves had been pushed up to his elbow. "Feet apart, bend your knees, just like I showed you yesterday." Judith circled him, nodding approvingly at his form. "Now, swing."

Once he did, a curious thing caught his eye; as he swung down, the mark warmed, glimmering in the same way it did when his grandfather touched it. The stinging in his fingers and the ache in his thighs where she'd smacked him eased somewhat. "Huh." Judith smirked as he understood; _this_ was the value of his Crest. She showed him another stance, and every once in awhile, he felt that same warmth on his arm and the same easing of pain that he had never noticed before.

She worked with him until sundown, and though he felt sore all over, the aches caused by her onslaught were nearly gone; he doubted he would even see a bruise. They put the training gear away and with a word of farewell, he wandered his way to the dining room. Best to put away his thoughts of his afternoon with Judith until after supper; he doubted the old man would find it impressive that he only now noticed the healing properties of his Crest after all these years.

Tonight was some sort of thick fish stew and soft bread, and he attempted to keep the disappointment from his face. "Well," Grandfather started their supper conversation; he always started their conversations thus. "I heard you had an argument with your religion tutor."

He paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. The old man's face was neutral and gave no indication if he was displeased with the report or only curious. "I just had a question, that's all. If the Ten Elites rebelled against the Goddess and Saint Seiros, why were they allowed to become nobles after the war?"

His grandfather shrugged. "Saint Seiros was merciful, and the Elites repented." A minute passed as they ate, and then, "That's not what upset Cerise."

Claude took his time to wipe his mouth before he replied. The old man was devout, or at least made every appearance to be so; he wouldn't dream of trying to guess the truth in another man's heart. "Shouldn't she be pleased I'm curious about the church's history and lore?"

The old man sighed. "You really let the curiosity get the better of you sometimes, don't you? That might be the flaw that's your undoing." They ate in silence for several minutes, until Grandfather drained his glass and poured another. "Questioning if the Sword of the Creator is real is borderline blasphemy."

Now it was turn to sigh. "You honestly don't expect me to believe there are magical weapons gifted to some ancient warriors, and their descendants now are the benevolent rulers of Fodlan."

"You ought, as there's one in this house." Grandfather's eyes glittered with mirth as Claude choked on his wine. "Don't bother looking for it, my boy. I will know if you've gone hunting for it." He was being examined over the rim of the old man's glass, and he wondered just what sort of expression was hidden underneath. "Show better sense than you did today and Failnaught will be yours, and most likely before you've become Duke proper. I've little use for a bow these days."

"Yes, Grandfather." So, he had found the line. He'd do his best to scuff his toes against it, or at least be better at avoiding being caught when he wished to take a leap over it.

A nod, though he thought he saw a trace of doubt in the old man; Claude continued to smile. "Though, perhaps we ought to get you a religion tutor with a bit more fortitude if you're going to ask difficult questions. Just take care which questions are prudent to ask. Marcel!" Gods, he would never get used to that.

After supper and he was alone at last, Claude leaned against his door with a sigh. Clearly Grandfather's piety wasn't for show, and at least some of his faith was genuine. Claude would have to be more cautious if he didn't want to be sent packing.

He glanced at the books on his shelves as he dressed for bed. They might not be useful in sating his curiosity for the truth behind the fantasy, but they were a start; reading official doctrine would provide clues, and if he were lucky, he could find clues regarding more heretical texts that would lead him to the truth. He was sure of two things: first, his grandfather confirmed that Relics were real, which meant the Sword of the Creator was, too. Second, if the Sword was real, Claude would be a fool not to be curious about where such a thing was kept. Even if he wasn't to stay in Fodlan, weapons of that strength would be of use.

Once he pulled his nightshirt over his head, he renewed his attentions to the books. _The Journals and Accounts of Saint Cichol_. Heavily edited, he was sure, but from the slight knowledge he had, Cichol seemed to be the most rational of the saints and as good a place as any to start. He brought the heavy volume to bed with him; it would make a fine enough pillow tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Judith go on an adventure.

Now _this_ was more like what he imagined being the heir of a dukedom to be. All lessons were cancelled owing to the roundtable conference; the servants were to put their full attention to the comfort of their guests, and a selection of novels and puzzles had been presented along with his breakfast. He knew it was a ploy to keep him in his rooms as much as possible and out of sight of the other lords, but that suited him just fine. As such, he was determined to be as idle as possible; Cichol could wait. So he spent the morning reading some fanciful story about a knight who pledged his undying love and loyalty to the brightest star in the sky, and now he planned a nice after lunch nap on the sofa closest to the fire. Maybe after he would take a look at the games they had brought him.

He had just shrugged off his jacket and wrapped himself up in the warmest blanket from the bed when there was a knock on the door. He huffed. "Enter." _It had better not be Marcel_.

It wasn't; Judith rolled her eyes at the sight of him curled up there by the fire. "What are you doing?"

He thought it was obvious what his plans had been, but he doubted she asked because she was confused. "Napping."

"Boy, we've got work to do." He groaned and sat upright. "The other lords are all in their rooms getting ready, so now's our chance. We want you out of sight if at all possible."

He buttoned his jacket. "I don't even know if I want to be heir, Judith. What if I just want to go home?"

"Don't." She shook her head. "You don't want to ever utter anything like that here, not with the other lords here. You never know what rats are in the walls, and what they could repeat." She clicked her tongue. "Hurry up, now."

He followed her; how did she know her way around the palace so well? At last, they stopped, and she grabbed his arm to pull him into an alcove. "Hey now, not that you're not beautiful and all." The rest of the thought died as she shot him a glare that could curdle fresh milk.

A glance around, and when she was sure there was no one looking, she pushed a portion of the wall away and slipped into a hidden corridor. He followed, stopping when she did to remove their boots; both pairs were set by the entrance of the passage. "Don't even so much as breathe heavy if you don't want to get caught."

The walked down the hidden corridor on stocking feet, Judith ahead; she sure seemed to know the way around these passages as well, and they wove a dizzying path through what felt like half the palace until she finally stopped. Here, at least, there was some light coming from whatever room they were peeping in on. She glanced through the hole in the wall, and then gestured for him to come look. Through the narrow slit in the wallpaper, he saw a conference table with a perfect map of Fodlan carved into it. There were no political divisions marked, just the terrain of the continent.

His grandfather sat at the head of the table; to his left, two men with rosy pink hair; one of them had streaks of white. "The Gonerils," she breathed in his ear. Funny, he had heard more stories about Holst Goneril than there were stars in the sky, but he never imagined he would look so cheerful.

The door opened, and others began to enter. "Gloucester, Edmund, and Ordelia," she whispered in the order they arrived. Gloucester had a receding hairline, Edmund draped in five layers of velvet, but Ordelia was the one that made him suck in a breath; he thought he was looking at a ghost. "Careful." She put a hand on his arm.

They sat down, Gloucester to the right of his grandfather opposite the Gonerils with Edmund beside him, and Ordelia took the foot; they had a perfect view of Gloucester's balding scalp. His grandfather put his folded hands on the table. "Sirs, we're here to discuss the matter of repairs to the Fodlan's Locket. The Gonerils have made their survey of the damages from the last invasion attempt from the east, and we have a figure of what it will take to repair it."

At his grandfather's glance, Duke Goneril cleared his throat. "It will be one hundred thousand gold for materials and craftsman to make repairs. There is a whole section of wall that needs replacing, and we have some plans drawn to improve the fortifications there as well."

"The Locket doesn't need additional fortifications. How much will it be to replace the wall as it was before?" This was Gloucester; Claude chafed at the way he spoke. There was no way that man didn't have a sneer on his face.

"The defenses were inadequate," Holst replied. "If we can shore up the fortress, we run less risk of another invasion from Almyra."

"I didn't ask you, _Lord_ Goneril."

Now he could see the man who took down Nader the Undefeated; nostrils flared, lips thinning into a hard, flat line, that was a face that could even make an Almyran general shudder. The older man put a hand on his shoulder, and the younger Goneril sat back into his seat at the touch. "Holst was there, Renard. If he couldn't stop the wall from being damaged, then improvements are needed."

"We should trust Lord Goneril's judgement," Edmund replied in a voice that matched his velvets. "He is the hero of several Almyran invasions, after all. I can pledge half the amount of the repairs, as well as I know several craftsmen that can be of service in the repairs and that should bring the cost down for the rest."

Gloucester waved a hand. "Fodlan's Locket is in Goneril territory, shouldn't they pay the majority of the costs?"

"We put up the majority of the troops. Unless you're offering to provided additional forces to man the Locket?"

A huff. "We have responsibilities to keep our southern line against the Empire, so we've none to spare."

Grandfather spoke at last. "And we assist with those defenses. If we build up the Locket, the eastern line will be as quiet as the south and west. If Edmund can pledge half, the rest of us can split the costs easily. Goneril provides the most troops, and I'm willing to pledge half of their portion in consideration of that."

Ordelia's voice rasped. "I can spare two battalions in exchange for costs, Oswald."

Judith tapped his shoulder, and with a jerk of her head, he followed her back through the winding pathways hidden in the walls. "There's nothing else of interest in that conversation, trust me. Just more jockeying for position."

Once they put on their boots, Judith took the lead, careful to check for any passersby before they emerged. He squinted against the sudden daylight, trying not to stumble as they started to walk back to his rooms. "What did you learn?"

"Gloucester's an ass."

She chuckled. "If your grandfather has no heir, then Gloucester would be the most likely house to take over head of the council. He's pompous, but it's not entirely unwarranted. If you like him, his son is worse." They spoke in low tones, walking close. "Edmund and Gloucester are thick as thieves, and no doubt they talked before the meeting."

"Edmund seemed agreeable enough."

"Yes, but he was counting on Gloucester to object. He's the second wealthiest after your grandfather, and his port is almost as busy as Derdriu. That's why Gloucester connived to give him my seat at the table."

No wonder she knew so much. "But I'm guessing he doesn't have the troops to spare."

She nodded, approving. "The Gonerils have the most, followed by the Gloucesters and the Riegans. Ordelia has the least, even less than Daphnel."

The pieces fell into place so quickly he almost felt lightheaded; Judith was friendly with his grandfather, and most likely sided with him against Gloucester at every opportunity. The Gonerils were too important a family to set aside, and Ordelia was a ghost in more than looks; he seemed indifferent to the political squawking. Daphnel would be the logical target if he were Gloucester. "Is that why you're helping me, because I could get you your seat back? Replace Edmund with Daphnel again?"

A snort. "Edmund is too useful on the counsel, even if he is a snake. But Ordelia's line dies with him." Ah. "Don't be fooled, though; Edmund and Gloucester are working together. They want the wars to continue."

Something nagged him, though. "What about the Gonerils? They stand to profit from wars in the east more than anyone."

Now she laughed properly, and he blushed. "Holst Goneril doesn't want to fight Almyrans. He wants to stay home with his pretty new wife and make Goneril babies. But the other two have deep ties to the merchantry in their territories, and there's few things that are more profitable than war." He saw Judith give him a glance. "And I'm sure that you would like it if relations with the kingdom to the east were a little friendlier, yes?"

They came to his rooms, and he examined her placid face for hints. "So you want me to support you taking Ordelia's seat when he's gone in exchange for you helping me convince my grandfather to name me heir?"

"Clever boy," she said as she pinched his cheek. "Now, Oswald trusts Duke Goneril's judgement above all else. Duke Goneril trusts Holst more than anything, especially right now the last war against Almyra was such a success."

"So, I need to befriend Holst, got it." That was no problem; he could be charming when it suited him.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "I guess you're not that smart. Holst Goneril is too busy to become friends with some unknown relative of Oswald's." She opened his door and shooed him inside. "Tomorrow, be ready early in the morning, I'll introduce you to someone that Holst loves more than anyone else in the world." A critical eye examined him from head to toe. "I suggest you order a bath tonight, and wear your best clothes tomorrow."

The door shut. Claude sighed and removed his boots. What a strange set of circumstances he'd gotten himself into. It was hardly fair of her to give him so little information; how was he supposed to gain the trust of this unknown person who held sway over Holst Goneril? The man was legendary in two countries, and as Judith rightly pointed out, he was hardly fit to be named half the time.

The blanket was still on the sofa, the fire freshly tended; both tempted him to take up the nap he had been planning. But that wouldn't do now; if Judith wouldn't give him any clues as to the identity of this mystery person, he would try to figure it out himself. He looked at the pile of textbooks for his studies, considering which one might give him an idea of his plan of attack the next day. Probably none, he thought bitterly as he picked up the top book and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is loosely based on Lorenz and Claude's B support conversation, because of course Gloucester would backstab his own ally in the Alliance if it suited him.
> 
> Next chapter: Hil-da! Hil-da!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude starts to make a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some racism, this time a bit more serious than the last. If you want to skip, it starts when Hilda is talking to a young man. It ends when Hilda apologizes. There's no violence, just general disrespect.

"Goddess help the Leicester Alliance if all their fortunes hang on the whims of one lazy teenage girl," he wrote in his journal the evening following he and Judith's secret passageway adventure. "Today I met someone who could request to have whole mountains moved if they were in her way and it would happen."

As requested, Claude presented himself to Judith early the next morning in his best clothes and his face freshly scrubbed. He had even wet his fingers and tried to make his criminally short hair look as attractive as he could; not much could be done in that area, but it wasn't half-bad; he gathered that he earned Judith's approval by her curt nod after her examination of him. "You have money?"

He patted his jacket so the purse would jingle. Mixed in with the silvers his grandfather had given him were Almyran gold from his parents, so he would need to be cautious. She turned and began to walk away, and he followed. "So, Judith, who is this mystery person who holds the Alliance in the palm of their hand?" His investigation had garnered no clues, and after the third hour he abandoned it for the story of the knight again.

"That's Lady Judith to you, boy. You're not even Lord Claude yet, so don't be talking to me like I'm your equal." She glanced at him askance. "Be on your best behavior today, but also be on your guard. Hilda's smarter than she acts."

So now he had a name. Holst's wife, perhaps? No, that would be as impossible as befriending the general himself. "So what am I supposed to do for this lovely Hilda?"

"You're asking the wrong question, boy." A carriage waited outside the palace, the same one that had carried him from the border of Almyra into Fodlan, only it was now decked out in the Riegan colors with the Crest painted on the door. A footman opened the door and helped Judith inside. Claude followed; it looked a sight better now that it was no longer his prison. Judith knocked on the wall. "The Goneril townhouse." The snap of leather, and they were off.

Claude stretched, looking out. Beyond the palace gates lay a series of canals lined with townhouses painted in bright colors, all crammed against one another. So strange, this city. Home was just as cramped with winding streets and alleys that had no order to them, so unlike these painfully laid out places. He wondered who had so carefully planned this city he now called home. "So who's Hilda?"

"She's Duke Goneril's youngest, and his only daughter." The carriage rolled to a stop. "Let me do all the talking. Just look handsome and charming." The door opened, and he waited for Judith to exit the carriage before climbing out himself. They were before a large townhouse painted an eye-catching shade of pink. Banners bearing the Goneril Crest hung from each balcony; he counted six as they walked to the door, which opened as they approached. "I'm here for Hilda."

"Yes, ma'am. But I have to let you know, she's not in the mood for company." They were directed to a sitting room near the foyer. It was elegant and fashionable with dark wood and cream upholstered furniture with several vases full of pink roses and white lilies littered about. Strangely, the smell was not overpowering the way his bathwater tended but rather gave the room a pleasant air. Better than inhaling some of the more interesting pollens to satiate his curiosity.

Judith didn't speak, barely moved as they waited. He copied her in her easy manners, looking unhurried and unbothered by the wait. After what seemed to be half the day, he heard voices, one the unmistakable whine of a girl about his age. "I wasn't going to meet Judith in my nightgown, Marie," the voice said. The door opened, and Hilda Valentine Goneril appeared. Claude was glad he took Judith's advice and dressed in his best outfits; even as young as she obviously was, she was impeccably done up and dressed in what he imagined was the latest style in Derdriu. "Hello, Lady Judith."

"Hilda." A careless gesture. "This is Claude, he's related to Duke Riegan."

Oh, she was sharp; he could tell by the way her eyes searched him, right down to a seemingly careless glance at his fingernails. "Nice to meet you."

"A pleasure, I'm sure." Hilda flopped into a chair with a sigh. "What are you here for? You know my brother and father are at the conference, and Anelle is visiting friends."

"I'm here to see you. I need a favor." She nodded in Claude's direction. "He's new to the city, and would like to see the market." This was news to him, but not a bad way to spend most of the day.

Hilda gave out a long groan he was almost sure was fake; her peony eyes gleamed with anticipation. "But it's so far to the market and Anelle took the carriage."

"Master Claude has a carriage that can take you." Judith shrugged. "It's up to you, but you know you're banned from going out without an escort. Unless you'd rather wait for Holst to find time to take you." He could almost see her mind at work as she weighed the options. "You'd be doing me a favor. I promised Oswald to take the boy around, but I've got pressing business elsewhere today." More spying on the conference if he had to guess, and Claude only felt mildly put out that he wasn't invited to spend another lovely morning getting sticky with cobwebs in the hidden corridor. "I'll tell Holst that I found you an acceptable escort."

The girl huffed, puffing out her cheeks. "Anything to get my brother to stop bothering me."

And that was how Claude found himself opposite Hilda in his carriage as it wound a rocking path through Derdriu. He looked out as they moved beyond the townhouses, the streets narrowed and the buildings shrank, but they never lost that cramped, colorful quality. Boats floated in the canals, some carrying cargo and others people, pushed along by boatmen driving long poles into the water. "You don't look like Duke Riegan. Are you really related?" 

He turned away from the window to find Hilda's eyes on him. He studied her the same way she did him. "That's what I'm told. I didn't believe it at first, but I have the Riegan Crest."

"Oh, you have a Crest. No wonder the old man took you in." She seemed to want to say more but then thought better of it.

The carriage rocked to a stop, and they were let out by the footmen. Claude blinked, looking over the scene; there were so many different people, if the variation of clothing styles was anything to go by. Most were Fodlanders, naturally, but even within those people he could see multiple distinct styles of dress and manners even with this quick glance. "Come on, quit gawking," Hilda hissed in his ear, and he jerked back; when had she gotten so close? Her hand took his, and he allowed himself to be pulled along as he continued to look around.

There were some proper shops, of course; Claude didn't much care about those places. What drew his eye were the open air stalls that dominated the space. Fabrics, exotic fruits, jewelry, spices, as well as all manner of unusual things could be found here, he was certain. And the _smells_. Food carts dotted the area with as much rhyme and reason as the rest; which is to say, none at all. He swallowed; it would not impress the youngest Goneril if he were to openly drool.

She stopped at a silk trader's stand and pulled him under the tenting. Bright bolts of fabric arrayed in racks surrounded them, artfully arranged to show the full play of color for each. A pair of women in bright skirts and full blouses spoke in rapid Almyran, arguing between matching a deep blue with two different yellows, and someone else smelled of sandalwood incense. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the air was dryer and hotter; oh, how he missed it. The pain settled somewhere in his throat, threatening to choke him. Best to keep his eyes wide open, in that case.

"Excuse me," Hilda said to the arguing women, and took the fabrics from them. They seemed surprised, but then she put the darker yellow back definitively and handed back the fabrics that remained. "Trust me, the other looks nice now, but in the sunlight that will look much better." She smiled at them, and then moved on, her hand still firmly in his. _What an odd girl._

For herself, she purchased a satiny pink that nearly matched her hair, and they were on their way. "How did you know what they were talking about?"

"Wasn't it obvious? They couldn't decide between the two yellows. The older woman wanted the darker yellow, but I think she's just old fashioned." He thought about it; her skirt did remind him of his grandmother's clothes. They passed by a pastry cart, and Hilda sighed. "I never know if they'll taste as good as they look."

"One way to find out." He stepped closer to get a better look. Fluffy pastries dusted with sugar in the shape of crescents seemed to be the main product. He pointed with one hand and held up two fingers on the other. A whole silver piece seemed highway robbery, but he would pay twice that much if they were as good as Auntie Mumtaz's. 

Hilda took the offered sweet even as he bit into the other, her eyes alive with curiosity. "Where did say you lived before?"

A mouthful of pastry kept him from answering right away; he was in no hurry to finish chewing. Almonds, cardamom, and just the right amount of walnuts. Perhaps it was homesickness, but he was pretty sure these were better than his aunt's. "Far away from here." 

Her eyes searched him; his smile was armor, and she sighed again. "My brother never wants to eat anywhere that doesn't serve Leicester cuisine."

Claude chuckled. "I won't tell him if you don't."

A smile; he wondered if it was as fake as his own, and she took his hand again. "Judith will kill me if you get lost." He liked this feeling, regardless of the reason. They moved through the market at a leisurely pace; Hilda stopped frequently. With each stop Claude found himself carrying another bag. 

Slowly, they wound their way through the market in this fashion, taking a circular path through the place. Claude bought a thin pointed dagger for his sleeve; the one from home was too bulky for narrow Fodlan clothes. Hilda sighed as they passed the fur traders from Brigid, her eyes lustful as she examined sable and mink, but they didn't stop.

Near the end of their winding path a stall caught his eye, and he tugged on her hand. "Hey, wait a minute." He stepped closer, ignoring her huff of protest as she released his hand. Locks of all shapes and sizes; some had clever little keys, but his eyes were drawn to the cipher locks on one side. No one knew how to make a cipher better than an Almyran.

The merchant wearing loose silks smiled as he approached, dark eyes flashing as Claude glanced over the wares. "You're a long way from home, it seems. And wearing such clothes."

Claude looked behind him; Hilda waited a good distance away. "So are you, but you will be going back long before me," he murmured in Almyran. The words even _tasted_ better than Fodlandic. "How much?"

"For you? Six silvers. For your friend, ten." More than a fair price. Claude picked one; five digits ought to be enough to keep even the most nosy of servants from getting lucky. Coins changed hands, and the merchant handed him a scrap of paper for the code. "Pleasure doing business."

He tucked the lock and paper into his purse and with a nod of farewell, turned around. Hilda was in conversation with a young man, but based on the scrunch of her nose, she wasn't enjoying the topic of conversation. "Come on, Hilda, I'm not asking for much. Just mention it to your brother, would you?"

"I've told you a thousand times, I have no interest in convincing my brother which house will take the place of Riegan and Ordelia. Father and Holst can do what they like."

Claude took a good look at Hilda's companion; he wasn't much older than them but clearly noble born if his clothes were anything to go by. The boy noticed him, too. "What do you think you're looking at?" He took Claude by the shoulder and gave him a good shove. "Piss off, Almyran boy."

"Maxence, I always knew you were rude, but I forgot that you're stupid, too. Claude's related to old man Riegan." Hilda made a disgusted noise as took his hand with a defiant lift of her chin.

This gave the boy pause, his eyes narrowing. "Just because he's Godfrey's bastard doesn't mean his mother couldn't be some Almyran whore. The doddering old fool must be really desperate to get an heir to take in a mutt." Maxence spat at their feet with those words and turned on his heel.

"Sorry." Hilda bit her lip when Claude looked at her. "That jerk is one of the reasons Holst insists I have an escort."

"Don't worry about it." He grinned. "I'd rather be called a dog by him than stupid by you." She laughed, and they started walking again. "Thank you for saying something."

She shrugged. "He's an ass, always has been. I don't know why he thinks acting like that would convince me his family should be made one of the Five." Her tone turned to one of concern. "I'm surprised you didn't punch him when he said that about your mother."

He couldn't help it; he laughed. "All I could think was my mother's reaction to being called an Almyran whore." He shrugged. "Why should I be bothered about him saying something untrue about her? She's not Almyran."

They reached the carriage, and Claude felt this was as good a place as any to part. "Are you sure you won't get lost?" Hilda's concerned seemed genuine as he handed her in.

"I got a pretty good idea of where we are and where the palace is. Don't worry about me." He nodded to the footmen and watched until they were out of sight. Claude sighed, letting his shoulders sag; finally, he was alone. He would have rather died than admit it to Hilda, but Maxence's words had irked him. Not because of what he said; hell, at least three of his aunts still called his mother a whore to her face once a week or more. But he had hoped that Fodlan would be different; weren't they always calling the Almyrans savages?

Had the boy seen him speak to the merchant? Doubtful he heard, given the distance and the din of the market. But had he seen enough to guess? Stupid, _stupid_ Claude. If Hilda hadn't stepped in, who knows how far it would have gone? He didn't know these streets well enough to escape Maxence the way he did his cousins. He would have had to fight; he still wanted to, to tell the truth, his hands shaking with the idea of rubbing that boy's nose in the dirt.

Tempted as he was to wander back to the market and test out the stiletto tucked in his sleeve, he really just wanted to walk back to the palace to clear his head. Best not to cause trouble; he didn't know how much of an uproar it would cause to give the brat a couple scars, anyway. He kicked at the cobbles as he walked along the canal. Yes, a long walk back was just the thing to work out his frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, this chapter gave me fits. I wanted there to be more to it because I have big plans for Hilda/Claude's friendship, but it will have to wait. Slow burn, all that.
> 
> If you skipped, basically a minor noble tried to convince Hilda to talk to her brother about adding his family to the counsel and said something nasty to Claude, and Hilda defends him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude considers his options.

It didn't work. All that evening into the next morning when he woke, Claude felt the same sick feeling. It seemed intractably stuck to his ribcage since that boy had spit on his shoes, and no amount of sleep or pacing around his room seemed to loosen it. He'd picked at dinner, not feeling particularly hungry, but his half decanter of wine went down easily enough; so easy he had been tempted to ask for another, deciding against it as it may attract Grandfather's attention. The last thing he wanted was to talk to the old man about his run-in. 

He lay on the bed, sprawled out in the middle of it, blankets pushed off as he sought out the cool morning air to wake him up. He shouldn't have spoken to the merchant like he did, no matter how much he missed the feel of his mother tongue as it reverberated in his throat and rolled around in his mouth, syllables full and pleasant sounding compared to the harder tones of Fodlandic. If that boy had seen, the rumors could quickly grow legs. _Stupid_.

The attendants came in, and he curled up on his side; he didn't want to look at anyone, didn't want anyone to see him. They moved around the room, some lighting the fire, others bringing in his breakfast, another to set out his day clothes. "Master Claude." He heard Aaron's voice from the foot of the bed. "Your breakfast and clothes are ready. Would you like me to pour your tea?"

"No, thank you. Leave it all, I'm not hungry at the moment."

"Are you not feeling well? Do you need me to call a doctor?"

Claude laughed, but it felt dusty and thick in his mouth. "I'm fine." He waved his hand, and he thought he saw someone bow in the direction of the bed, and the room fell silent as feet shuffled and the door was shut. He sighed, curling up tighter than before. Fodlan was no different than home; in fact, it was worse with all these attendants surrounding him at all hours of the day to keep him on task without even enough time to take a piss. At least at home no one cared if wasn't seen in the palace for an entire day, and he could do as he pleased so long as he didn't cause too much havoc.

Why would he want to be the Duke of a bunch of racist murderers, anyway? Fodlan, Almyra, both hated each other and nothing he could do would change that, not if he had to hem and haw about his parents until the end of time. This would never work, and they were all fools to think it would. No, he would wait out his exile and then return home to go back to his comfortable obscurity.

But Judith and Grandfather knew, and while the old man perhaps didn't approve of Claude's father, he was willing to entertain the idea of an Almyran grandson and heir _. And Hilda_. He apprised his opinion of her; sure, she seemed lazy and frivolous, but the way she looked at that boy and spoke to him indicated something more serious under that veneer.

He glanced up to see what had been brought for breakfast; gluey porridge with raisins. Claude flopped onto his back with a huff. _Screw this place_. A couple allies were hardly going to convince him that being Duke Riegan was better than life back home with his parents and Nader. What could compare to playing with Marmoulak or watching the stars over the desert from his bedroom window?

His thoughts continued on this vein for some time, bitter and full of longing for things to be different. He was still there on the bed dressed in his nightclothes when Aaron came with the midday meal, breakfast still untouched. "Master Claude."

"I'm still not hungry. Just leave it." He heard the clatter of silver and porcelain, feet shuffling, the click of the door. Only once they were gone did he glance up to see what they had brought him, but lunch was obscured by a silver cover, and the thought of standing up and walking seemed too much, so he settled back onto the bed with a sigh, hands tucked between his knees as he curled up once again.

The conference ended today; no dinner with Grandfather, then. Tomorrow he would have to face the old man. What would he say? Tell him to screw off, that he wanted to go home? No, that was impossible, too; it would take a long time before the Jahan incident was forgotten and forgiven. Would Grandfather let him stay here if Claude had no intention of being the next Duke Riegan? Doubtful. He definitely would not be treated with the deference and affection that he currently enjoyed. 

Yes, enjoyed; he paused to consider it. Despite everything, he liked the feeling of being important to his grandfather; he wanted the man's approval. He and his grandfather the king had spoken a handful of times in the whole of Claude's life, despite having lived in the same palace for all of his life. He spent more time alone with Grandfather Riegan after only two weeks under the same roof, and he would be a fool not to enjoy the attention. Even his parents paid less attention to him during his childhood, content to let him explore and learn from his mistakes without much correction on their part.

With a groan, he pulled the blankets over his head. All this thinking was giving him a headache, but he still had no will to pull himself out of bed. He didn't have his kit of potions and medicines, anyway, so he would have to ask someone to fetch an apothecary. What a bother.

He woke to the feel of a cool hand on his forehead, and he jerked away, reaching for the knife under his pillow; the knife that wasn't there, because this wasn't Almyra. His grandfather sat on the edge of the bed, his hand still hovering inches above Claude's face. The room bathed in a rosy glow; how long had he slept? His head still ached, his mouth feeling like paper. The hand returned. "No fever," Grandfather said. "Leave us."

There were others there, Claude realized now, and he watched Marcel and Aaron shuffle out of the room. "Sit up, my boy." He did so, and a tray was placed in his lap. Hot broth with barley, water, and some sort of juice. "If you can keep this down, we'll have the kitchen send up something a bit more filling."

"I'm not sick."

Grandfather chuckled. "I know."

The broth smelled far more appetizing than it ought, probably owing to the fact that he hadn't hardly eaten in the last day and a half, so he picked up the spoon. "Is the conference over?"

"Not quite. I've got a dinner with the other lords tonight, but then tomorrow they will be gone. I have a few minutes for you." Claude blushed; how childish he had been to make his grandfather worry. Another chuckle. "I'm not angry, if that's what you're thinking." He ate, if only to have something to do, as he could think of nothing to say to his grandfather, but he seemed content enough to fill the silence between then. "The first letter I got from your mother after she ran away was about you. Two years of nothing, and she decided to let me know you were born, and you had a Crest. And your father sent a drawing with the letter as well. My first grandchild."

 _H_ _is_ _only grandchild_. The last hope of house Riegan. Claude swallowed the words, and that sticky pain from yesterday began to dislodge from his chest. "What did you think when you got the letter?"

Grandfather's smile was gentle, full of memory and regret. "I thought you were the most beautiful little boy I had ever seen, and I wanted nothing more than to meet you someday." Claude dropped his gaze down to the tray on his lap, his vision blurring with hot, shameful tears. "I can't imagine the kinds of things people will say or have already said, or even if that's what this is about. Goddess knows I said some unkind things about your father when he stole my Tiana from me. But from your mother's letters, I'm surprised you would be so put out by a few idiotic comments. I thought you had more fortitude than that."

He felt like he'd swallowed an egg, hot and hard and constricting his throat. "But...Grandfather, I made a mistake."

"Well, see to it you don't do it again. Learn from it, my dear boy." He felt the old man kiss his crown. "As we all must. I do, and so does your mother. Your father I cannot speak for, as I unfortunately don't know the man well enough to pass judgement."

He wouldn't cry, not until his grandfather had left the room and the door was shut. He had a few minutes of privacy; he had heard the old man giving directions for a plate to be brought. Once the door was shut, Claude let the sobbing take him, shivering as he forced it out before anyone saw him at his most pathetic. How different would his life have been if he had known Grandfather Riegan throughout the years? Someone who loved him just from a letter and a drawing, willing to take him in and possibly make him heir to a duchy without meeting him first.

Yes, he would have to figure out how to feint and deflect all manner of questions about his parents and if he was truly related to the Duke. But for the old man, he would do his best. Grandfather deserved that, at the very least.

The broth was cold but he finished it quickly, still feeling his stomach ache behind his ribs; the other ache had eased at last. Tray set aside, he shimmied off the bed, muscles protesting the sudden activity. It seemed silly to dress just for dinner by himself, but there were proprieties to consider, social niceties and all that. He would wear the Riegan name like armor, no matter the cost. He just needed to figure out how to do it on his own terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to make Oswald kind of a xenophobic asshole (and he kind of still is in some ways), but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Claude is such a contrarian that he would have just ditched the Riegan line as soon as he could if there wasn't something in it for him. Oswald turned into what I imagine Claude would be like as an old man with some important differences based on canon of the story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Claude learns to shave, and uncovers a mystery.

So Claude settled into his role as pampered grandson, always careful to toe the lines Grandfather had drawn around him. As much as he hated being boxed in, his resolve to become the future Duke Riegan tamped down his natural predilection toward satiating his curiosity. So he would listen to his tutors with a smile plastered to his face, ask the polite questions, and be the charming grandson during suppers with Grandfather. Boredom would be the small price he had to pay to secure his future.

What kept him from abject boredom were two things: the first, his refusal to believe there were no hidden paths hidden in the walls of his bedroom. It had to be some kind of cruel joke; no matter how carefully he looked, Claude could not find any evidence of their existence. Impossible to think that the apartments used for the duke's immediate family would lack such a feature, as even his room back home had a secret exit. He searched every inch of the wallpaper for a week by both candlelight, and daylight during his second idle afternoon. Even running his fingers along every seam looking for purchase turned up nothing. His little adventure with Judith proved there were hidden paths in the palace, just not in this room. He was sure his grandfather laughed every time he thought of Claude searching for something that wasn't there. Or Marcel; he could see the steward having a twisted sense of humor.

The second was not a thing, but a who: his grandfather was a puzzle all on his own. Mother had characterized him as a stubborn, proud person, intractable in his opinions and who expected his commands to be obeyed without question, so he had not expected to find himself in the care of such an indulgent and affectionate parental figure; even when he was a bit too impertinent with his opinions, Grandfather usually only advised him to keep those thoughts to himself with a chuckle.

"Well, my boy," Grandfather began their supper conversation one night about a week after the conference, "you seem to be adjusting to your life here."

"Yeah, it's not so bad." He had even gotten used to the confining Fodlan clothes at last, though he definitely preferred the nightshirts from home over whatever the servants had tried to helpfully leave out for him after supper. "This is a quieter life than I'm used to."

His grandfather smiled. "Is there anything you want or need? I'm sure you had hobbies back home."

If he had to hazard a guess, collecting poisonous plants and regularly testing them on himself would quickly test the limits of the old man's goodwill. "I'm busy enough with the lessons I have, but thank you."

"Hrm. Well, if you are sure." His eyes watched Claude from over his glass for a moment, and then he said, "Well, what did you see today?"

The next morning as Claude washed his face before dressing, the door opened and Grandfather came into the room with a leather satchel in hand. "I was hoping to catch you before you dressed."

"Good morning." He watched as his grandfather set the bundle down and began to set things out; a silver cup, a bar of soap, a leather strop, and a razor with mother-of-pearl inlaid on the handle. "What's this?"

"You still have hot water in the kettle?" He nodded, still watching. Grandfather shaved a thin curl of soap from the bar and dropped it into the cup. "I'm going to teach you to shave." He reached and took Claude's chin in hand, a thumb running over a patch of whiskers on one of his cheeks. "Best to get into the habit now before you've got a full beard to contend with."

He blinked before he could think to hide his surprise. "Wouldn't a barber usually do this instead?" He knew that his grandfather had a man to shave him twice a week; Claude's trim earlier in the week came directly after that task was done.

The old man moved to the kettle and poured steaming water into the cup. A brush in hand, he stirred the contents of the cup vigorously. "You won't even let Aaron bathe or dress you, but you'd let a man put a razor to your throat?" He blushed, wondering how the old man had such information regarding his routines. "Turn toward me."

Grandfather's fingers were always a bit cold but gentle as he tipped Claude's head back. "Stay like that." Something warm and velvety brushed on his cheeks; the soap and water had turned into a thick foam. "This time I'm going to do this for you so you can feel what it's like, and then next week I'll show you how to do it yourself."

He closed his eyes at the sound of the razor being pulled from the handle. With a firm hand, the old man pulled his skin taut and swiped the blade against his cheek. "The most important thing is to be steady about it. If you're not sure in your motions, you'll cut yourself."

"Okay." Each swipe of the razor left his skin almost painfully exposed to the cool air. It was such an oddly intimate thing to allow his grandfather to do, yet he had submitted without question; even his own father wouldn't have done this for him. If he was home, at best he would have been handed a razor and told to work it out for himself. "Did you do this for my uncle?"

"No, he had the barber do it for him." The razor swiped against his throat, and Claude swallowed reflexively after it had already passed. "The servants are here to take care of you, so you don't have to keep them at arm's length."

He opened his eyes. "You trust them?"

"Aaron!" Claude startled; thankfully Grandfather had paused in his work. The door opened. "What is your job?"

"Your Grace, I'm Master Claude's manservant."

"And what does that entail? What do you do all day?" Grandfather's fingers pulled the skin on Claude's other cheek, and he felt the blade sing against his flesh.

"I stand outside the young master's rooms or the training grounds when he's there. I bring him his meals, set out his clothes and washing things, draw his baths. If he asks for anything, I bring it to him."

Grandfather turned his face, examining his work. "Tell me honestly, I will know if you're lying. Do you have any objections to being Master Claude's servant?"

"No, sir. It's an honor to be the young master's personal attendant."

"Rinse your face, my boy." He looked at himself in the mirror as he splashed the lukewarm water against his jaw; how strange it felt and looked, and he wasn't sure he liked it. But he supposed it was a necessary sacrifice he would have to make for now. "Nothing at all bothers you about taking care of Claude?"

He turned; Aaron was shifting on his feet, avoiding Granfather's stare. "The young master doesn't wear the sleeping clothes I set out for him. He keeps the ones he prefers in his chest."

"You could just not set out the others," Claude replied.

Aaron stiffened his back at the rebuke; perhaps he ought to be less harsh. "That's impossible. Marcel would put me back on carriage duty if he checked your room and didn't see nightclothes prepared." Claude blushed, properly ashamed.

"You know the rumors about who Claude is, I'm sure." Aaron nodded. "And you don't care that you're attached to an Almyran?" To say it so openly caused Claude to suck on his teeth.

The man shrugged. "Marcel said he's your grandson, and that's all that matters. The future of house Riegan is more important than some rumors." He could have sworn there was a flicker of a smile on the man's face. "Being discreet is part of the job of a manservant, is it not?"

Grandfather smiled, and Claude felt as if he were being laughed at. "Well, my boy. Aaron has said his piece. Do you have anything you would like to change?"

He considered the servant, still standing there with his perfect posture; his personal attendant, what a strange thing. "I hate rose tea."

The corner of Aaron's mouth twitched again, but to his credit he didn't fully smile. "What would you prefer with your meals?"

"There's one with pine needles that's popular in Almyra, or chamomile," he said, determined not to blush.

Aaron nodded. "I'll see what we can procure. Would you prefer we find a different soap and bath oil for you, as well, Master Claude?"

"Yes, anything but florals." He paused. "I'll leave my sleeping clothes out for you to put away where ever they need to be stored instead."

"Very good, sir."

Silence fell, and then his grandfather chuckled. "Is that all, my boy?"

They both looked at him, expectant. _Oh_. "That's all for now. I'll call if I think of anything else."

He bowed, and he was gone with a quiet click of the door, and they were alone. Grandfather chuckled, cut off by a sudden cough; Claude was mildly alarmed at the wracking sound of it. A handkerchief pulled from a pocket, the old man wiped his mouth once the fit subsided, and he thought he saw a flash of red before it was tucked away again. "I don't expect you to let Aaron bathe you or button your jackets, but do find him something to do from time to time, would you? It's not much fun to stand outside your rooms for weeks with nothing to do."

"I'll consider it, Grandfather." A pat on his shoulder, and Grandfather left the room. 

Claude sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew he wasn't wrong in what he saw; the old man coughed up blood. Perhaps there was a way he could pay him back for all his kindness. "Aaron!" He didn't quite have the command of his grandfather, but that would improve with practice. The door opened. "There's a library in the palace, right?"

"Yes, Master Claude. Is there anything you'd like me fetch from the collection?" Aaron could read, that was useful information to know.  
"No, I was thinking after dinner you could show me where it is." It would cut into his study time, but that would have to be sacrificed. "Do you know if there are books on medicine and flora of Fodlan?"

"I'm unsure, but I can check the books and report to you this afternoon."

"Thank you, Aaron. Once Apollin is here, could you?" The door shut, and Claude set to dressing for the day. If Grandfather was sick, perhaps he could find something to ease it; blood indicated a long illness. Perhaps he ought to ask for more lessons, if they didn't have much time left.

Apollin came in with his heavy books, and Claude put on his best smile, determined to put his grandfather out of his mind for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Claude is growing up.
> 
> I've written straight razor shaving scenes before, but it was someone shaving himself so this was interesting to write.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude goes looking for trouble, and finds some.

His grandfather was right about one thing; Claude _was_ tenacious, something learned from being the least important grandchild in a crowded palace. It had also taught him patience, and that if he were to enact vengeance against his cousins, it would have to be untraceable back to him. And he wanted so very dearly to get back at Maxence.

If he played it just right, he could test some theories as well. There would be no end to the gossips and the rumors, but perhaps he could turn those rumors against his opponents. As such, he began to form a scheme, and all good schemes required information. When he heard the familiar clatter of his breakfast things being cleaned as he buttoned his jacket, he started his information gathering. "Aaron, I think I'd like to go out Sunday to the market."

"Very good, Master Claude. I can tell the stable to have your carriage ready after chapel."

"No, I think I'd like to ride one of those boats. How do I get on one?"

"I can draw up directions to the nearest gondolier station, it will take you directly to the markets."

"Fantastic. How much is it?" It wouldn't do to get scammed.

"Six coppers. I can have one of your silvers traded for smaller coins if you'd like."

He stepped out from behind his screen. "Very good, thank you."

So for the next three weeks, he walked out the palace and onto the street to the gondolier station closest to him. It was a thrill to be alone, he had to admit to himself as he walked past the gates and onto the street. The stiff breeze made him grateful for his wool suits, but even the numbness of his ears couldn't distract him from the view of the city from the gondola. It reminded of the time he laid on the carriage floor on his way to Derdriu, and he could see the grandeur of the city from his low place in the canal, the sky unfurling in blues and white clouds, so perfectly picturesque. The boats rocked in a pleasant way; everything about the ride was lulling in its rhythm. He could almost fall asleep, at peace with the scenery and his life.

His first order of business on the third week was to find a stationary store and buy another journal, as his was rapidly running out of pages of the one from home. He picked one with a plain leather cover and heavy paper. Two silvers seemed steep, and yet he was hardly out of allowance. Just how much money had Grandfather thought appropriate for his entertainment?

Next door was a bookshop, and from there he purchased the first novel that seemed interesting. Later he would peruse their stacks in more detail, but for now he only wanted something to set his trap, and he'd finished the one he'd purchased the first week. Last, he wandered the open air stalls for lunch. He wasn't much interested in what they were offering; he missed the food too much to be picky what he ate. Instead, he had looked at the vendors themselves before settling on an Almyran grandma with a wrinkled, smiling face. Experience told him that she would be tougher than she looked, and there were tables beside her stall so he could eat there.

Her name was Farah, and she smiled even wider as he ordered in their mother tongue, and he suspected he paid half her usual price. Bless his handsome face. He noticed that she slipped an extra cut of warm flatbread onto the waxed paper with his skewers. He had chosen very well indeed, and with each successive week, he found himself with even more food than before.

Book in one hand, skewer in the other, he made every attempt to look absorbed in his reading. Difficult to do; that grandma sure knew how to cook, and it took everything he had not to stuff his face until he looked like a chipmunk preparing for a long winter. The longer he lingered the better chance he had at catching his quarry.

At last. Claude spied Maxence strolling around the market over the edge of his book, grateful that it would cover up his smile. He made a show of stretching, seeming still absorbed in his book. All his childhood he taught himself to be as invisible as possible; to be visible meant some sort of torture or teasing by his cousins and their friends, but now he wanted to invite trouble, and Maxence was stupid enough to take the bait. 

It took nearly an hour, but at last, he heard the boy's voice, "You're still here, Almyra?" A hand smacked on the book, and Claude let it fall onto the waxed paper with what had been the remains of his meal. "What do you think you're doing?"

He picked the book up gingerly and gave Maxence his best contemptuous look. It was ruined now, the cover coated in grease and spices from the skewers; the food might still be salvageable. "Just enjoying a nice afternoon in the market."

Direct confrontation had never been Claude's strong suit, but his opponent hardly needed winding up. "Yeah? If you're not an Almyran, what are you doing eating their food? Disgusting, do you even know what those savages do? Eat with their hands, and I've heard they don't bathe but once a week in _public_ baths."

"Almyra is a desert." He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and made a show of wiping off the book. "Water is scarce."

"Oh, you know a lot about Almyra, do you?"

He glared. "Even children in the Alliance know that much." He avoided public baths as much as possible, especially when his cousins were there. 

Maxence laughed, but Claude could tell he was running out of steam. "Don't try to pretend you're something you're not. Just because that doddering old fool thinks he can pass off an Almyran bastard as a legitimate heir, you'll never get the approval of the rest of the Alliance lords."

"Good thing I don't need it."

A smirk, and the boy spit on his food. Half a heartbeat, and before Maxence could turn around to storm away, he heard a shout from the stall in heavily accented Fodlandic. "You insult my cooking?" Grandma Farah, armed with a wooden spoon, sallied forth, and Claude laughed as Maxence began to be soundly beaten around the head and shoulders by the wizened old woman. "How _dare_ you! He did nothing to you!" Each _thwack_ was more pleasant sounding than the last, and soon he was breathless with laughter, near blind from the tears streaming as he watched Maxence, unable to bring himself to strike an old woman, flee with shouted protests. She only chased him a short way before coming back to the table, a satisfied grin on her face. "You're all right, boy?" 

She spoke Almyran, and he responded in kind. "Yes, thank you, Grandma." He held up a silver coin. "Another order, please, and keep the change."

She shook her head and picked up his ruined food. "That's too much, and I was going to give you another order for free. What's his issue, anyway?"

He shrugged. "Fodlanders are all crazy. I insist you take the money. I'm in your debt." At last, she took the coin, and soon he had a heap of skewers and bread at his table along with a cup of hot tea, just the thing to ward off a cool autumn breeze. He thanked her and opened his book again. Today was a very fine day, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kind of short, probably the shortest scene that will be in the fic. I considered adding more, but this sums up what I wanted to achieve quite tidily.
> 
> I also promise I haven’t forgotten about Claude realizing he effed up speaking Almyran in public, there’s a plan.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald von Riegan schemes.

One month turned into two, and the weather turned as sharp as a broken glass. It was a wet cold that he had never experienced in the whole of his life, and he was sure his feet would never be warm again. Claude had taken to wrapping himself up in a blanket over his suits; he was sure the servants mocked him as he wandered through the palace halls. Only during training did he abandon his cocoon, and that had become the worst part of his days, miserable sessions in the mud and muck and near perpetual rain. It had rained a couple times before the weather turned, but it wasn't this chill.

Judith found him in the library on a Sunday afternoon, swaddled in his favorite blanket by a roaring fire, chamomile tea just within reach. Aaron had set out a series of books on medicinal plants in Fodlan that included drawings of the plants, a most useful resource for when summer came and he explored the countryside for himself. If he survived the winter. "Boy, you look ridiculous."

"But I'm warm." He made a show of marking his place and setting his book aside. He straightened into a sitting position, still comfortably wrapped. "What do I owe the honor, Judith?" Her glare was harsher than the winter air. "Lady Judith."

"Thank your lucky stars you weren't shipped off to Fhirdiad instead." She sat down on the sofa opposite him and poured herself a cup of tea, and her eyes glanced at the stack of books beside him. "This is how you spend your free time? Wouldn't you rather be out and about?"

"It's raining."

Her laugh was a barking sort of thing, but not unpleasant. "It rains here from Wyvern to Pegasus, are you going to hibernate the whole winter every year?"

That was a thought he had not considered; if Derdriu was to become home, he would have to deal with this weather every year. "I could."

She laughed harder. "Come on, a sparring session will warm up your bones." So this would be their relationship, he thought as he abandoned his nest and followed her through the palace, hardly able to keep his teeth from chattering. "You could request some warmer clothes, you know. I've heard the old man has set aside quite a considerable sum for your needs."

He huffed, surprised he couldn't see his breath. "They've been ordered, they took measurements last week for those as well as summer suits." Claude assumed those would come a bit bigger for the summer months, as he had been growing quite rapidly.

Judith shooed everyone out of the training grounds as Claude reluctantly pulled off his jacket and put on training leathers, shivering as large droplets of water hit his sleeve from the awning. She seemed restless, rolling the hilt of her sword against her palm so it swung in wide, lazy circles. He picked up a sword; he'd broken his favorite last week, but this one would do. "Well," she said as they got into position, "show me what they've taught you, Master Claude."

He had improved, that was certain as their match commenced. It was more than a handful of minutes this time, but still he lost as she flicked the sword out of his hands with a casual twist of her wrist, and he found the point of her sword on his throat. "Yield?"

"Yield." The sword dropped, and she smiled. "Good?"

"Passable." He picked up his sword, expecting her to show him the error of his form, but instead she took the weapon from him and set both training weapons in the rack. It was then he noticed Marcel standing there at the door to the training grounds. "He's ready?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Judith jerked her head. "Come on, boy. Don't worry about your training things, we shouldn't keep Oswald waiting." They walked behind Marcel but he doubted she needed to be led around the palace like this, and soon they were at the door of Grandfather's office. Odd for a Sunday.

Yet there he was at his desk, hands folded in that familiar way of his. Claude examined him; he seemed to become breathless singing the hymns, and he thought he saw a shadow under the old man's eyes. "Judith, why is the boy here?"

She sat down without ceremony, and Claude copied her. "The roundtable conference starts tomorrow."

The months of close company taught him to recognize Grandfather's amused, indulgent smile. "I'm aware."

"Gloucester knows." She leaned back with a gesture toward Claude. "You know as well I do that he's not a patient man, and he'll force the issue."

He laughed, cut short by a cough. "You overplayed your hand, Judith. You should have known anyone seen with the Goneril girl would be gossiped about." Gods, did the old man know _everything_?

Judith smirked. "Did I? Maybe I wanted Gloucester to do my dirty work to force you to make a decision."

Mouth wiped clean with a handkerchief, that indulgent smile still graced the old man's lips. "If that was your ploy you wouldn't have said it so boldly."

It was dizzying watching the two of them verbally spar; even as allies, they were practically at each other's throats. "You're right, I wouldn't use Gloucester even as an unwitting ally."

Grandfather tapped a finger against his temple, thinking. "Will you be there tomorrow to vouch for Claude?"

"Of course, but you're not seriously considering doing it tomorrow."

Grandfather ignored her question and fixed him with a appraising look. "My boy, where are you in your history book?"

It took him a moment to register he was being spoken to. "We, ah, just talked about the building of the Locket." Apollin could even make wars sound dull and uninteresting, and if it wasn't so bloody cold, he might have nodded off.

Fingers tapped on the desk. "I asked where _you_ were in the book."

"Oh, I finished it." Weeks ago, and he had been using the time to look through the books Aaron collected on his behalf.

"And the Seiros scriptures?"

"Read twice." He knew all the hymns by heart, too.

The old man chuckled. "Oh, how I've wanted to get that old goat for ages now." He tapped the hard wood again. "Thank you, Judith. Claude, make sure you're presentable tomorrow to meet the other Alliance lords. You'll still have your free time while they're here, but after the conference we'll be changing your lessons and tutors. I hope you're ready."

No more Apollin with his paper dry voice, no more stern Beulah glaring when he tripped over the names of famous nuns and monks? He would light all the candles in church next week. "Yes, Grandfather."

Judith raised an eyebrow. "Oswald, what are you planning?"

"Lady Daphnel, I wouldn't have held this seat for as long as I have without holding my cards very close to my chest at all times." He stood up, and they followed his lead, even if Judith's face was still twisted into a scowl. "I think I'm in the mood for a nap before supper."

"That old fox is far too pleased with himself. I don't like it," Judith muttered under her breath as they walked to the library. "Gloucester is more dangerous than Oswald gives him credit for. If he's cornered, he'll just fight dirty."

"Cornered animals also make mistakes," he murmured in reply.

She stopped short, her eyes searching his face. "You know, before you came here, Oswald-" she shook her head. "Never mind. Before I forget." A hand went into her jacket, and a letter sealed with wax and yellow ribbon changed hands. With a curt nod, she walked away, appearing to be muttering to herself. _Just what had she wanted to say?_

His jacket was there, draped over the back of the sofa, the fire fresh. He changed out of his leathers and into the jacket before tangling himself in the blanket again. His mother's letter was short. "My crescent moon," she began.

"Your father and I will be going away for some time, so I won't be able to write again until we're back in the palace. Your grandfather has assigned him to a diplomatic mission eastward. At least it will be winter when we cross the desert, and the whole company can ride, so it will not be too difficult a crossing.

"When we come back, we will see if it is safe to send for you, should you want to. I want to know your opinion of my father; is he as hard on you as he was on me? I hope so, because you need a firm hand to counter that contrary streak of yours." He considered this; his mother had run away from home due to her father's harsh discipline, so she always said, and he wondered if she understood the hypocrisy of her words. He could hardly see Grandfather tying him to a horse and letting it drag him across the hot sands for an afternoon in the way his parents had done when he was a child.

"As always, your father's contribution follows. Be well, my Khalid. Much love, Tiana."

The next page was a drawing done in Father's distinct hand; a striped cat nursing kittens. "What happened in your room while you were gone," he scribbled in the corner. A second drawing of a blue flower. "The Vile Weapon of Khalid of the Traitor's Blood." He laughed at the title; he never had identified the flower, and would have to do so when he returned home. But now he had a picture to remember; doubtful any of his carefully set aside specimens had survived.

Letter folded and tucked into his jacket, the fire roaring, he felt sleepy. Grandfather had the right idea, there was just enough time for a nap. He let himself drift off watching the fire pop and flicker. Home, what a funny word.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude gets a promotion and finds out some information about his uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longish chapter, probably the longest in the fic. I considered breaking it up, but it ended up being two short chapters. It works well as one scene, anyway.

Over the course of his residence in the Riegan palace, Claude had come to appreciate Aaron as his personal attendant. He was efficient and discreet, and while he suspected the man found his peculiar habits amusing, he hid it well behind his mask of servile politeness. They worked together decently, and he knew him well enough by now to understand when his manservant was annoyed. A half dozen servants descended on Claude's bedroom the day the other lords were expected, Marcel at the fore overseeing everything that ought to have been Aaron's discretion. "You won't be embarrassing the duke if I have anything to say about it," Marcel said as he watched Claude scrub his shoulders and neck. He sniffed. "What is that smell?"

Aaron's lips thinned. "Pine."

"His Grace prefers lavender."

"And the young master prefers not to be watched in the bath, yet here we are." Claude dipped his head under water to keep his smile hidden. 

"I'm here at his Grace's request, Mr. de Janvier. Remember your place."

His cheek twitched, imperceptible to just about anyone. "My place is as Master Claude's servant, and he is in my care."

This seemed as good a place as any to interrupt, even if he was enjoying the repartee. "Can you all turn around so I can get out?"

Winter bathing, he decided, was the absolute worst. He heaved himself out of the hot water, shivering in the sharp air of the room until his robe was comfortably over his shoulders and tied fast. He went to the vanity next to comb his hair. "He needs a haircut before he dresses," he heard Marcel comment behind him. Thank the gods he'd shaved before the attendants had descended on him; he could only imagine the steward's horror at him doing the task himself.

"He just had a trim two weeks ago," Aaron replied. The trim had come after Marcel had gotten a good look at him; Aaron had twice sent the barber away before he could make it through to Claude's apartments.

"It curls." Beeswax scented with sandalwood and warmed between his fingers put his hair into some semblance of order, even if it still wasn't completely flat.

He could see his manservant shrug in the mirror, and he had to bite back a laugh; Aaron really was losing his patience to be so expressive. Perhaps Claude was rubbing off on him. "So did Lord Godfrey's, I've been told."

"You go too far, de Janvier."

Time to step in again. "There's no time for a trim, the lords will be here soon and I'm not even dressed." He turned around and waved a hand. "That's all. I'll be out in a minute."

The new suit had arrived last night and waited behind his dressing screen; no, he wouldn't give Aaron up for anything. It was green wool with gold detailing, and the colors brought out his eyes and the warmer tones of his skin. Impeccable taste; it was exactly what Claude would have picked out for himself. 

Dressed and scrubbed until he was flayed, he stepped out into the hall, relieved to find only Aaron waiting. "Thank the gods," he muttered, and Aaron flashed him a smile. "I would have punched him if I were you."

This time the shrug was directed at him. "He means well even if he is old-fashioned in his opinions. I understand he was attached to Lord Godfrey before he died, and became steward after his Grace's man retired." That explained the altercation somewhat; he wondered what kind of person his uncle had been.

"You're not usually this talkative." Claude gave him a glance. "I'm unsure when I'll be free again, but if I'm not back by the time the maids have tidied my rooms, please go relax somewhere, I'll call for you."

"Very good, Master Claude." They came to the front gallery where Grandfather and Judith waited. A bow, and Aaron turned on his heel back to Claude's apartments to oversee the tidying.

The old man smiled as he approached. "My boy." Grandfather put his hands on Claude's shoulders, and he was subjected to a thorough examination before receiving a nod of approval. "You look well."

"I hope this play of yours works, Oswald." Judith still looked put out.

A chuckle. "For your sake, as well." He gestured. "We should sit. It would look odd if they showed up and we were just milling about."

"Do you think they'll all come at once?" Judith said as they settled themselves; she had an armchair, and Claude was sat beside Grandfather on a sofa by the fire.

The old man nodded. "They wait until all the carriages are here. Some silly tradition Edmund started to show unity or some such nonsense."

"Such a thing for the leader of the Alliance to say." It came out before Claude could stop himself. Judith snorted, and even Grandfather cracked a smile.

"I hope Edmund's ass is frozen to his carriage seat," she muttered.

"He wears too much velvet for that, Judith."

"Lady Judith, boy. Mess up in front of the other lords and next time we train together you won't be able to get out of bed for a week."

Grandfather snorted. "Be respectful, Claude."

The door opened, and Marcel stepped inside. "Your Grace, the Alliance lords."

"Very good, send them in." Claude felt his mouth dry up as he stood beside his grandfather. _This was it._

Sneering Gloucester, smirking Edmund, ghostly Ordelia, and last, smiling Goneril. "Sirs, welcome." He knew his grandfather well enough to know this was the voice of a man of consequence; Duke Riegan, the mask he wore to conceal the soft-voiced old man he had grown close to. He gestured, almost careless, toward the boy standing beside him. "This is my grandson, Claude von Riegan."

"Grandson? How, Oswald?" He heard Gloucester say as he bowed; best if he didn't speak. "I wasn't aware Godfrey had any children, and none legitimate for certain." They were getting right at it; he was almost impressed.

"My boy, roll up your sleeve." He did so, and the other lords took their turns examining the Crest as it shimmered at Grandfather's touch. "That should be sufficient proof he's a Riegan, yes?"

Ordelia took his time looking at Claude's arm, his face twisted in a grimace. "Crests aren't everything."

"Exactly!" Gloucester jabbed a finger at Grandfather, then at Claude. "This is most unusual. How do you know that this boy isn't just taking advantage of you, Oswald? He just so happens to show up after your heir dies?" Another jab. "You told me yourself you knew of no children of Godfrey's."

"He's not Godfrey's son," Judith cut in. The other lords looked, surprised, as if they hadn't noticed her before. "I know his parents. He's a legitimate relation of the Riegan house."

"How? Who are his parents? This is all very odd."

No, here was Duke Riegan, the man who helmed the squabbling mess of lords that was the Leicester Alliance, a person who booked no opposition to his decisions. "You would involve yourself in my personal affairs, Renard?"

It took all of his considerable control not to snort with laughter as Gloucester's face turned the color of old porridge as a hush fell over the crowd. Claude felt like he was missing something, but he could ask Judith later. At last, Edmund smiled, slick as oil. "Come now, gentlemen. Who are we to doubt the word of the peerless Hero of Daphnel? She has never been anything but unfailingly honest."

Claude doubted _he_ was being honest, but rather, saw the writing on the wall. Gloucester could huff, but he'd been beaten, at least for now. Goneril chuckled. "Don't be so fussy, Renard. If Judith vouches for him, does it matter if he's a bastard? Your own son was born seven months after your wedding, if I recall."

"You're one to talk, Hercule. Holst was born five months after yours," Judith remarked with a smirk.

Goneril laughed. "My wife's parents insisted on a long engagement, but she was so very pretty then, and still is." He rubbed his chin, looking over the other lords. "If we're done here I'd like a private word with the boy. Claude is it?" The others filed out, Judith last, and he was alone with Duke Hercule Goneril. The man smiled, but something about it made Claude's palms sweat. "I have to thank you for the last time we were here. Hilda's quite taken with your conduct as her escort, and it's good to know there are still upstanding young men in the Alliance."

He bowed; perhaps he should just stay in this position. "It was nothing, your Grace. She was doing me a favor showing me around the market."

"I'd like to bring her here tomorrow, if you're not busy. She whines to come to Derdriu at every opportunity, but hates the rain. Yet I can't say no to Holst when he asks to bring her as well." He was rubbing his chin again. "It is good to have the old Oswald back. I think it has everything to do with you as well, so I ought to thank you, but," he paused, a slight frown creasing his broad forehead, "I have to say, if you have deceived him in any way, there won't be a place in this land you could hide from me. He's had too much grief in his life already, so take care you aren't another disappointment."

With that, he left, and Claude was alone. Not a moment too soon; his knees were about to give out. The sofa was thankfully close, and he sank down, every nerve on fire with unspent energy. He'd been assaulted by all sides all morning, and felt all of it now he was alone. A good book, a pot of tea, and a nest of blankets in the library were just the trick.

The door opened, and he looked up, hoping for Aaron, disappointed when it was Judith. "Boy, come on. The lords are in conference, and I think you'd be interested in the topic today."

He sighed. "Judith, can't I just have-" He stopped as she walked over and pinched his ear as she hauled him upright. "Ow! What was that for?"

"It's Lady Judith, you insufferable brat. Just because you're Lord Claude now doesn't mean you get to be mannerless. Until you're in Oswald's place you'll address me right." They began walking, Judith at the lead.

"Wait, Lord Claude? What's with the promotion?"

She rolled her eyes. "Are you sure you're not Godfrey's son? What do you think all that was? You're the heir of Riegan now."

Well, if it were up to him, the heir of the Riegan dukedom wouldn't have to sneak about and get covered in cobwebs just for some information about the Alliance dealings. Yet here he was standing in the hidden corridor, freezing to death. It had to be his new clothes, too, blast it all.

They watched as before, Claude closest to the slit in the wallpaper while Judith stood behind him, her breath against his cheek. The scene was the same from the first conference he'd peeped on, minus Holst Goneril. Claude tucked that question away for later; Duke Goneril had indicated his son was in town, so it was curious that he wasn't in attendance.

Grandfather coughed into a handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket, a habit that had become more frequent as the weather turned. Goneril noticed, too. "Bad day, Oswald?"

The old man shrugged. "The winters are always worse. Nothing much can be done about that." Claude bit back a sigh; so there was something wrong with his grandfather, but it wasn't a secret. Well, it wasn't a secret to everyone but _him_. He watched as his grandfather folded his hands in front of him and set them on the table. "The first order of business has to do with a recent string of wild beasts attacking merchants and carriages on the High South Road on the border between Gloucester and Riegan territories."

A harrumph from Gloucester. "I've heard no such complaints. You call a conference over this? Everything else could have waited until the spring."

"I requested the conference," Goneril said, his voice measured and even. "Holst and Hilda were attacked. Thank the Goddess Holst had Freikugal at the time, or they might not have made it."

Edmund jumped in, and Claude saw it now; he and Gloucester covered each other much the same way his grandfather and Goneril did. "If this is the case, why is the general not here? I would like to hear his account for myself."

"Holst is still quite worked up over the incident, and I thought it prudent that he not attend. He's very protective of his sister, as am I." He had misjudged Duke Goneril; there was something very clever about the man and the way he laid the slightest pressure on his words to reveal the veiled threat there.

"Lord Goneril killed the beasts, then?" Ordelia said. "I fail to see the reason for this conference, then."

His grandfather tapped the table. "So we would think, but a curious thing. A week after, I had some merchants report of an attack on their caravans. If Holst had killed the beasts, why are there still reports? And most interesting, one of the merchants swears that when they crossed the border between Riegan and Gloucester, the beasts stopped chasing them." He pushed a stack of papers toward the count. "This is his account, if you would like to read it."

It was unclear if the count was actually reading the report or making a show of it. "What are you proposing, Oswald?" Ordelia said, his voice paper-thin.

Duke Riegan cleared his throat. "Clearly we all have an interest in maintaining the roads and providing safe passage. What I propose is a joint venture to determine and root out the cause of these beasts. After my son died, I was assured the problem would be taken care of, but the reports still come. Losing Holst wouldn't just be a blow to Goneril, but the whole Alliance."

A tap on his shoulder, and he could just make out the jerk of Judith's head as she indicated they were done listening. Back through the winding pathways on stocking feet to the entrance. "I feel like I missed half that conversation," he whispered as they fumbled to put feet into boots. "What happened to Godfrey?"

"Your uncle was killed in an accident. He was on his way to Gloucester manor, as the count had some art he was selling and your uncle had an interest. His carriage was set on by giant beasts." At least the heavy rains dampened the light, and he didn't have to squint quite so hard when they emerged. "Everyone died, including the merchants who were to provide an unbiased opinion on the pieces."

He considered this. "What are the odds that the same accident would befall the heirs of two houses in the same location?"

Gods, why did she have to pinch so hard? "Gloucester got sloppy, using the same trick in such a short period of time."

"Or that land is just cursed." Clumsy; something must have made Gloucester move, and it wasn't difficult to trace the line of his thinking to the rumors about an heir of house Riegan. "Did he honestly think he would best Holst Goneril?"

She shrugged. "Desperation does strange things to a man." She ruffled his hair, smirking as he protested. "Introducing you right off really took the wind out of Renard's sails, that's for sure. He can't very well protest that it's a personal matter in his territory after trying to blatantly interfere with Oswald's line of succession."

So Grandfather had used him; Claude found he didn't mind all that much. Gloucester had it coming, and it was something to see the old man at his peak. "Tell me, J-Lady Judith." She grunted. "How long has my grandfather been sick?"

"Hrm, I'm not sure. He only admitted it about five years ago when he announced his intention to let Godfrey take over, but there have been rumors for years and years that his health was fading." She ruffled his hair again, laughing when he shook her off. "So you better work hard." With that, she left.

He wandered back to his apartments and found Aaron waiting there. "I told you to take a break."

"I didn't listen." 

With a gesture, Aaron followed up inside the rooms. Claude removed his boots and began to unbutton his jacket. He needed to change out of these dusty pants, too, but that could wait until Aaron was gone. "I'll stay here the rest of the day, unless I'm called for." He had no desire to even be in the library; the morning exhausted him. "Can you do something for me? I want a map of Leicester and a list of books on Leicester politics from the library. Is the kettle full?"

"It can be." He heard the rattle of the armoire as Aaron set out fresh clothes for him; the man was a treasure. He picked up the kettle from the hearth on his way back to the door. "Pine?"

"Actually, yes. Thank you, Aaron." Claude hummed as he ran his fingers of the titles on his shelf. It was here somewhere; there. _A Treatise on Timocratic Norms and Expectations_. Dry, dense, and near cryptic to be sure, but there were worse fates than a little boredom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying making up boring titles for Claude's textbooks. 
> 
> Next: Hilda, round two.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude develops an interest in the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CT warning: brief mention of bloodletting as a medical practice. When Claude goes to see his grandfather, skip to avoid until Oswald thanks Claude for bandaging him up.

"Why don't you wear it?" Claude looked up from his meal to see Hilda staring back. As promised, Duke Goneril had brought the girl with him to the palace, and as the rain had let up somewhat and he decided to take advantage of it and escorted the pouting girl to the market, but she was still sulking about something. He had worried Grandma Farah would give him away, but when the old woman spied him she only laughed as he put a finger to his lips before the youngest Goneril could see. Next week he would come see her to make up for it, even if it was dumping buckets. Instead, he let Hilda choose some fancy little place with indoor seating that served standard Leicester meals and prices that ate up his allowance a bit more than he would have liked. 

She stared at him; right, her question. "Wear what?" She harrumphed, a hand reaching to tug on his earlobe sharply. It was an odd feeling; he could feel the nub of scar tissue as she pinched. "Oh, that. It's not proper of a noble, so it had to go." Now he knew Grandfather better, he was sure the old man wouldn't care but something held Claude back from twisting the jewelry back into place; a voice in his head seemed to whisper, _not_ _yet_.

"I can't believe you're the heir of Riegan. You could have said something last time." Doubtful this was the real reason for her ire, but it was close. She picked at her meal, still watching him. "Your barber needs to learn how to cut curly hair, it looks awful."

He shrugged. "Grandfather's barber does it. So long as it's out of my eyes, it's fine." Usually he'd hack it off himself at home when it got too long, or let Hamza do it when she was in a good mood.

"You really don't care, do you?" She huffed. "You're just happy to be in the palace with your grandfather. I bet you're even excited to go to the Officer's Academy at that stuffy old monastery." He pitied her pheasant as she jabbed her cutlery into it. "I'm only going because Holst said he'd tell Father to marry me off if I don't."

 _A_ _monastery, huh?_ One fancy enough to have an academy for noble brats to attend. He wondered what kind of secrets he could dig up about that sword his grandfather insisted was real in a place like that. "Sure. I want Grandfather to keep me around, after all." He leaned on an elbow. "Won't you just be married after you finish with the academy, anyway? That's normal around here, so why delay the inevitable?"

"Because I don't want to be married! It just seems so inconvenient." There was something held back in those words, and he had a suspicion as to what it was; Hilda's comments about his appearance didn't tend toward any particular feeling beyond aesthetic objections, and her lack of qualms about grabbing his hand or his ear belied a distinct of interest in him as a man in _that_ way. He would have to observe her more closely to confirm his guess. "But studying is so _boring_. Who cares about all those wars and treaties? And they make you learn to fight. No, thanks."

He considered her over his tea. "How about we make a deal. I'm not used to all the niceties and proprieties around here, and your family seems to think I'm some sort of paragon of virtue that will protect you. If you help me muddle through the social nonsense, I'll help you get through classes with little effort on your part." 

Hilda considered it as she ate, seeming to have gotten over her fit of irritation with the bird on her plate. "You're the Riegan heir so no doubt you'll be house leader. You'll need a lot of social coaching, it's hardly a fair trade."

"I can tell you a secret." He held out his hand to shake. "Final offer."

She took his hand, and they sealed their arrangement. "Tell me this secret of yours."

"Oh, it's not my secret. Count Gloucester? His son was, ah, born a few months early." She raised an eyebrow. "Seven moons after his parents married."

A snort. "Everyone already knew that about Lorenz, that's why he's so insufferable. Thank the Goddess he's been at school in Fhirdiad all this time, he would be in such a tizzy about you showing up."

He sighed. "I can't tell if you're just pretending to know or not so you can get a freebie." She shrugged, watching him from across the table with an inscrutable smile. "How about I tell you a story?" He may have exaggerated a bit, but he recounted the scene with Maxence and Grandma Farah with as much faithfulness as he could, careful to avoid references to speaking Almyran to gain the old woman's trust, and soon they were both breathless with laughter. "He had grease marks all over his jacket," he choked out.

"Oh, I want to give that woman a hug." Hilda giggled, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. "Beaten with a wooden spoon! In the middle of the market!" And she dissolved into hiccuping laughter again.

It was past sundown by the time Claude returned to the palace, Hilda been successfully dropped off at the Goneril townhouse. Today's talks would be over; better now than later, and he asked the housekeeper who let him inside where his grandfather was. "The Duke has retired for the night, Lord Claude," she replied with an incline of her head. "But only just a half hour ago."

He thanked her and wound his way through the palace to the family wing. To be honest, he was looking forward to seeing the old man again; he'd gotten used to their dinners together, and he missed his company. Did the old man feel the same? Doubtful.

Marcel was leaving the ducal apartments as Claude approached, and the steward shook his head before he could say anything. "His Grace is indisposed."

"It will only be a minute."

"Marcel, is that Claude? Let him in," Grandfather's voice seemed weak, but the steward sighed and let him pass. "Come here, my boy."

He examined his grandfather as he came closer; the old man's breathing labored, and he seemed especially pale. One of his wrists draped over a basin in his lap, Claude felt a bit sick as he realized Grandfather was bleeding. If the sharp little knife on the table beside him was any indication, the cut was self-inflicted. "Grandfather," he murmured. "I, um."

A chuckle, and the old man patted the sofa cushion beside him. "Don't worry, I've done this enough to know when to staunch it. I simply got tired of having to call the doctor every time I needed it done."

Claude sat down, the initial shock wearing off quickly; he'd seen plenty of blood and death, and he became more interested than anything. "Does it help?"

Grandfather shrugged. "I've been told it does, and it doesn't seem to hurt other than the cut itself. I heal quickly enough still, even at my age." He touched his chest with a smile, the same gesture when they talked of Crests that first day. "This keeps me well better than any doctor, to be honest."

"How long?"

"How long have I been sick, or how much longer do I have?" Grandfather examined the blood in the bowl and seemed satisfied with the amount. He reached for a spool of gauze beside the knife. 

"Both." That got him a laugh. After a moment's hesitation, Claude took the bandage and began to wrap the cut for him.

"Call Marcel, would you? I'm not in a state to shout." Claude obliged, and the door opened. "Bring us a bottle of port, would you? Thank you." He felt the old man's eyes on him as he continued working on the bandage. "Well, I noticed it about ten years ago. Godfrey took over most of the duties when I couldn't make it through a day without coughing blood." Bandage tied tight, Grandfather smiled in approval of his job. "Thank you, my boy."

"You had to come back when he died." He nodded, and Claude bit his lip. "Does Mom know?"

He shook his head, which seemed to bring on a fit of coughing. Handkerchief pressed tight against his mouth until it subsided. "We have a complicated relationship." The port arrived on a silver tray, and the old man waved Marcel off as he went to pour. "Go on, you've had a longer day than I have." A bow and a murmured farewell, and they were alone again. The port was too sweet for his tastes, stronger than the wine they usually drank for supper. "As to how long I have." Grandfather sipped, considering his words. "Difficult to tell. I've already lived longer than expected. This body won't let me die, not yet."

The burn of the wine cut through the lump in his throat; horror crept at the thought of the slow death his grandfather, his Crest only prolonging his pain. "I suppose I have my work cut out for me to be ready."

He nodded. "You've got to learn about fifteen years of education in five. Lucky us you're as clever as my Tiana claimed, perhaps even more so." Port finished, he poured himself another glass. "But I doubt you came here to ask about my health."

His request to go to the monastery seemed a little silly now, but he cleared his throat as the old man continued to give him an expectant look. "I want to attend the Officer's Academy."

The amusement evident in Grandfather's smile made him blush. "I'm glad you're so eager to attend the academy. I wasn't looking forward to the prospect of locking you in the carriage all the way to Garreg Mach. A Riegan attended the first class of the academy, and you wouldn't have a choice in the matter if you wanted to stay."

"But next year."

"You have too much still to learn before you're ready to take your entrance exams. I don't think you ought to be in the same class as Lord Thayer's son, seeing as you've already humiliated him." His eyes twinkled even if he frowned at Claude.

He attempted to look abashed, but doubted it worked very well. "You heard about that?"

"His father sent me a very long, very angry letter about the affair." He patted Claude's shoulder. "It was a risk befriending the old woman how you did, but it paid off in the end." His grandfather grinned. "A bit crude, but it shows the kind of genius you'll need to rein in the rabble we call the Leicester Alliance. Crudeness might just be the best way to counter that stuffy prick Gloucester."

The curse surprised him. "You really don't like him, do you?"

His grandfather didn't reply right away, and instead finished his glass with a sharp swallow. His voice was low, and the cold anger of his tone made Claude break out in a sweat. "That bastard killed my Godfrey, I would do anything to ensure he never takes over the Alliance."

Claude had been wrong about many things in his short residence in the Riegan palace, but this might be the most important error; while he looked nothing like Duke Riegan, in personality they were frightening similar. He felt a premonition of his future; revenge on a spoilt brat via an old woman wielding a cooking spoon was one thing, but to hand the leadership of an entire country to Claude out of spite? It was a level of petty that took his breath away. He could only hope to be as ambitious in his schemes as his grandfather. "The merchants who were with my uncle, did they have kids?"

A curious look passed between them. "I believe so, why?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps you ought to check on them, make sure they are provided for. It would be hard to lose a parent so suddenly." There were many ways to get revenge, after all.

The old man rubbed his chin. "Yes, it would be, wouldn't it?" He took Claude's glass from his hand. "It's late, off to bed with you."

He could take a hint, and he stood. "Good night, Grandfather." A hesitation, and then he leaned over and kissed the old man's cheek. "Sleep well."

Something about that smile made Claude's heart thump against his ribs painfully; so sad, and yet so oddly sweet. "Good night, my dear boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of satisfaction to write. I have a headcanon about Claude and Oswald being devious Riegans together and Oswald using his grandson against the other Alliance lords to get his way.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude begins his new lessons and learns some family history.

Aaron had to be leading him to the wrong place. The conference ended and with that, Claude's new lessons began. Breakfast, then arms training, break for a midday meal. Now they walked through the palace but not to the wing where his lessons had been held at times. Instead, he found himself in front of his grandfather's office. "Um," he said when Aaron knocked.

"Enter." The door opened, Aaron stepped aside. Grandfather was at his desk, writing. "Take a seat, my boy." He did so, taking the opportunity to look around, noticing a change; a small desk and a stack of books had been placed in the corner under the windows. "Yes, that will be your desk for your lessons." He turned around; the old man cracked a smile. "I believe a direct method is best. I've met with about a dozen tutors for you, but none of them really understood what I'm after with these lessons."

He cleared his throat. "Won't this cut into your time to get your work done?"

A shrug. "Perhaps at first. My hope is by summer you'd be able to answer the majority of these petty requests for me." 

A thrill went up his spine; this wasn't just dry theory, this was real. "And the books?"

"Read them. I know how fast you read, so don't pretend to slack off. Tell me when you're done with those, I'll have more ready. We'll discuss over supper as before." Grandfather handed him a stack of papers. "To begin, read this and tell me the lie."

He hardly doubted that the theft of a pig was something a duke ought to be passing judgment on, but Claude read the report while seated at the desk in the corner. The shuffling of papers, the scratch of pen to paper, and his Grandfather's occasional clearing of his throat were soothing in an odd way. A companionable silence, he supposed.

Another read; the first time he couldn't figure out the puzzle. It seemed straightforward enough; two neighbors, one had a pig. Pig disappears from the sty and ends up in the neighbor's property. Both accuser and accused agree on those points, but the contention lay with the accused claiming they have no knowledge of how the pig got over their fence, and the accuser stating that their neighbor had always coveted that pig.

Claude leaned back with a sigh, running his hands through his hair. One of them was lying; no, that's not what Grandfather had said. He said to find the lie. He picked up the report again and read it again, forming his idea. "The whole report is a lie. The magistrate who wrote it made it up."

The scratch of pen stopped, and he heard the soft clink of the pen on the inkwell. "Explain your reasoning."

"Well, both accounts don't really contradict each other. Neither one saw what happened with the pig, but the accused states his wife was in labor and he had been busy running errands for the midwife the night it happened. The magistrate's report has no mention of talking to the midwife to confirm his story. It would be an easy thing to confirm the birth date of the accused's child, after all."

"You're almost there."

He frowned and rubbed his eyes. "Someone had to move the pig, as there was no damage or loose boards in a fence that the pig could have slipped through, so it was intentional." He rifled through the report again. "The accused mentions that he knows his neighbor was going through a difficult time, and wouldn't have stolen the animal. But that means the accuser could be bribed."

His grandfather laughed. "You're too young to be so distrustful of people." He looked; the old man smiled, warm and full of affection. "Give those papers here, and you're free until supper. Marcel!" At least he didn't jump this time. "Help Aaron carry those books to Claude's rooms, would you?" Grandfather stood and walked to the hearth with the papers, which went directly into the fire.

Claude paused at the door. "Grandfather." The old man looked up. "Why did the magistrate try to frame that guy?"

He went back to writing his letter. "The magistrate and the accused are brothers. If his brother had been arrested for stealing, the magistrate would have inherited the land and house." Lessons within lessons with the old man, that much was certain.

Once he was alone in his room, Claude took a proper look at the books Grandfather had chosen. _Estate Management: Theories and Practice, Elementary Bookkeeping, Social Etiquette of the Leicester Alliance_ , and most exciting, _Discourse on Import and Export Taxes in the Adrestian Empire, the Holy Kingdom of Faeghus, the Leicester Alliance, and Other Nations._ About twenty books in all, all in the same vein; some had multiple volumes. He picked one at random and settled himself on the sofa nearest to the first. Better get started.

He read until supper, grateful for the interruption from the dry discourse on land management he'd subjected himself to. "His Grace is in the banquet hall," Aaron said as Claude checked himself over in the mirror.

"Huh, wonder why." They usually ate in a small dining room, being only two people. Even supper were lessons, that wasn't new, but to take the banquet hall? "I suppose I'm about to learn the difference between a fish and salad fork or some such nonsense."

"Yes, Marcel and his Grace are going to teach us proper service."

"You, too?" Claude laughed as they left his rooms. "Well, at least I won't be alone in my confusion."

Aaron shrugged. "If I'm to be your steward, then I have to know these sort of things. So I've been told."

"But you wouldn't object to me throwing the whole rulebook out, would you?"

"I don't mind the pomp and circumstance at times. You're less difficult to care for than others, so I've heard."

He wondered if those rumors were regarding his uncle, but Claude kept that question behind his teeth. Better to ask Judith about Godfrey's shortcomings.

The banquet hall was impressive, he had to admit; room enough for two hundred at least, all gleaming wood and marble floors that he could almost see his reflection in. Grandfather sat at one end of a long table, his hands clasped together as he looked into the fire. Marcel stood behind his chair and watched them approach. "First. Aaron, the heir of Riegan sits on the duke's right." Aaron stepped forward and pulled out the chair for Claude to sit.

"Now, normally this would be done before the dinner starts." Marcel had a stack of porcelain dishes, and Aaron stood beside him. "Service, salad, soup." These were nested in each other in front of Grandfather. Cutlery next, "Salad fork on the outside beside the napkin unless there's a fish course, then dinner. On this side, spoons on the outside with the soup on the outside. Knives on the inside to match the forks."

"I pity whoever has to wash all these dishes," Claude muttered.

Marcel glared at him, even if Grandfather chuckled. "Manners, my boy. Believe me, I've had Gloucester complain that the distance between the forks was too narrow." Claude laughed; of course he would. More dinnerware; a bread plate with its own knife, then a dessert fork and spoon above the service. Three crystal glasses, and then a teacup on a saucer. "We'll take tea in my room after, Marcel, don't let me forget."

"Of course, your Grace." They moved on to Claude's place, and he leaned back in his chair to allow them room. "Now, Aaron, as best as you can remember."

It was slow, almost agonizingly so, and with great care, the man set the plates and cutlery just as Marcel had showed him, and soon there was a full service before Claude as well. He held his breath as Aaron stepped back and Marcel forward to examine the work. Two spoons were swapped. "The soup spoon is bigger," he said, adjusting the forks so they were a bit straighter. "Well done."

"Thank you, sir."

Grandfather waved his hands. "Go on, take your breaks." They left, and the old man laughed. "Are you ready, my boy?"

"Yes. But we're not really going to eat a three course dinner?" Just the two of them in this enormous banquet hall, eating a full fancy dinner like this? It was just the kind of Fodlan absurdity mocked in Almyra. But there was something playful about the way the old man smiled.

"Four if you include dessert. But if you're willing to indulge an old man, I would prefer to take that in my rooms while we play a game together. I've heard you're good at twenty squares."

Oh, _gods_. The thought of playing that again brought about an ache he didn't know he had; how he missed sitting opposite Papa, silent and intent on his moves in the hopes of out-strategizing his father. "You have a board?"

He nodded. With a gesture, the soup course was brought in. "Well, what did you see today?"

Perhaps a game after that meal had been a bad idea; he felt his eyelids drooping from the wine and the pleasant feeling of being overly full. Even when the tea was poured and he smelled roses, Claude was hardly inclined to object. "That's a nice board," he commented when it was set on the table; ivory inlaid with lapis and gold, the game pieces jade and carnelian.

Grandfather smiled. "An Almyran ambassador gave it to me as a gift when he came to negotiate a trade agreement. He was a funny man who taught himself Fodlandic so he would stop getting overcharged for charcoal pencils and paper in the market." The old man chuckled. "Then he took my daughter when he left, so I came out the worse in that trade."

"So that's how they met." The clacking of pieces was a familiar comfort; Grandfather was skilled, and he wondered if he had learned from Claude's father. Another thing they shared. The gift had been prepared by his grandfather the king; did Grandpapa even consider that the gift would lead to their families joining together?

Claude lost, and quite soundly. "Damn."

A laugh. "You're out of practice."

He shook his head with a smile. "Nah, don't give me that kind of out. You're just better than me."

"Still, you made me work for it."

They settled into another one of those companionable silences as Grandfather finished his tea. It was late, and Claude could see the inky black of the sky through the high windows in his grandfather's sitting room. Something about being beside the warm glow of the fire and the blackness outside gave him a strangely comforting feeling, as if he and Grandfather were the only ones there, that everything outside this room didn't exist. "Will this be how it is every day now?"

"You mean with a four course supper that puts you off your wits?" He laughed. "No. Aaron will be in charge of your schedule, and it will depend on when I have time for you and what you're ready for."

That he could live with. "I'd like to play again sometime."

He patted Claude's shoulder, his smile affectionate. "All you have to do is ask, my dear boy." Claude smiled back before stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. "Off you get, then."

Back in his room, he sat at the desk with his journal from the chest and pulled pen and ink from the drawer. Date marked, he hesitated before he began. "Let me report a story about a pig."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote Claude's puzzle, I knew I wanted it to be a) the magistrate lying and b) it to be about a pig, because it would be ridiculous enough to throw Claude off for a minute. He won't always be so lucky; Oswald may have been babying him for his first day.
> 
> Twenty squares is loosely based on the Royal Game of Ur.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude receives some unexpected news from home.

Despite the similarities Claude had found between the two of them, there were certain points in which he and Grandfather would never come to agreement. The weeks passed more quickly than the ones before; not only was he busy, but he was busy with interesting things for the first time since entering the Riegan palace. Lessons with the old man pushed him to the limit of his knowledge and cunning, and he felt a deep satisfaction when he had solved the presented problem to his teacher's satisfaction. Every day he was given a new task to work through; reports with discrepancies, complaints of strange happenings, meetings with petitioners, all requiring him to look beyond the surface of what was being said and find the heart of it. Before he knew it, it was the Lone Moon and almost the new year.

That particular morning, he had been in the study at his desk, Grandfather at his. Today's puzzle was a request for trade negotiations with Faerghus; they didn't have much, but they had furs and steel and needed grain. "I think we should open trade with Sreng."

The old man groaned. "Not this again, Claude." He learned there were levels to his affection; _my boy_ was his usual address with a dear thrown in when they were getting along exceptionally well. _Claude_ meant his grandfather was getting impatient with his shenanigans, and _boy_ meant that he was about to get a lecture.

"What? This is different than my Dagda proposal." He waved the papers over his head, turning to look at Grandfather. He was being watched back, the other man leaning against a hand with his index finger against his temple. "Why should we discuss tariffs with Rufus when he wants too much? Sreng can't be that different from Faerghus in terms of goods, and we might be able to negotiate better terms than this."

He sighed. "Because the Srengi are savages who don't trade."

"Says who?" He'd read _The History of Sreng_ , written by the same Fodlan hack who wrote _Almyra: Customs and Religion_. He doubted the author had even made it as far east as the Locket in all his life. "Rufus? Is he even sober long enough to know where Sreng is? All I'm saying is that-"

"Boy, that's enough." There it was; Claude bit his lip to look abashed enough before the old man started raising his voice. "Your task is to tell me if you think that agreement is a fair one. We're not trading with the Srengi."

"No, it's awful, and it gets worse every year. They want us to charge half the tariffs they do? We don't need steel and fur from them as we can get those elsewhere, but they have a famine every decade there's not a plague there. The Empire is in no state to offer them fair terms."

"Is that your only objection?"

"I mean, yeah."

Claude knew that smile; it was the one that he donned when he had thoroughly trapped his grandson in some clever scheme. "If the tariffs on grain exports weren't steep, the Alliance merchants would sell too much to Faerghus because the demand is higher there than here, and we would be the ones with the famine. By putting tariffs on grain, Rufus is controlling the price better than if there were none at all."

His face was aflame; why hadn't he thought of that? Grandfather continued. "But we've just come off a war in the mountains against the Almyrans, so we needed all the steel and furs we could get our hands on. By lowering tariffs, the Faerghus merchants could compete better against ours, thus giving them incentive to come east." With that, he held out his hand. Papers passed hands, and the old man tidied them against the desk. "Off with you now. I'll send some books along for you to study. If you can find a better objection, be quick as I'll be sending Rufus a reply come tomorrow morning."

He puffed out his cheeks as he walked to the library; he wasn't one to take a defeat like this. Perhaps he could find something of use to raise an objection before he fully conceded. _Damn that crafty old man_. Even more than losing, he couldn't bear disappointing him.

A stray thought came when he began to review the shelves. Prince Dimitri wasn't of age to take the throne yet, hence the regency, but he was born about the same time as Claude, so in short order he would ascend. What did his Princeliness think about trade tariffs? Did he have any opinion, was he involved in any decisions about those sorts of things, or did his regent keep him away from such matters? He tapped his chin, thinking; no book would give him that answer.

The only person who would have any knowledge on such a topic would be Grandfather; it was a risk, but tonight if he could ply some answers out of the old man and was quick on his feet, he might be able to cobble together a decent enough counterpoint. He moved to the sofa to think, stretching out over the cushions to stare at the murals painted on the ceiling while he mulled his options, a scene of the battle between Saint Seiros and Nemesis above his head.

A knock on the door, and Aaron entered. "Lord Claude, his Grace requests your presence immediately."

Strange; this was not on the schedule, but he was content to follow Aaron to the study. Judith was there, looking grim. Claude didn't like this one bit. Grandfather glanced at Judith. "Well?"

"All clear." He nodded, and Claude heard the door close behind her with a soft click.

"I have something to tell you, but it cannot leave this room. If you have something to say, best get it out before you walk out that door, understand?" He nodded even as he felt a thrill of terror at the words. Grandfather cleared his throat and said in a whisper, "Judith received some news that the Almyran royal family was murdered and the palace burned to the ground."

 _Why was it so hard to breathe?_ All the air in the room had been sucked out, and every inhale was agony. "My parents?"

He shook his head. "Everyone died." It seemed his grandfather also struggled to catch his breath. He took Claude's chin in his hand, and their eyes met. "This is important. When you walk out of this room, you have to act like nothing is wrong. Do you understand me?"

There were brambles in his throat as he swallowed. "So do you."

He chuckled. "Ah, I've been pretending for a long time, my dear boy." Grandfather's hand was warm on his cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of his eye; he was surprised to feel a trail of dampness in its wake. 

He felt a kiss on his temple, and with it, all came boiling out. Claude bit down on his own thumb, heedless of both the pain and the taste of blood that came with it. Something in his throat strained, but no sound came out until the first swelling sob, and then his cries came thick and fast until he was hiccuping. Mother, Papa, Hamza, his grandfather the king, the Alis and the Fatimahs, Aunt Mumtaz and Uncle Habib and Jahan, all of them; each name and face made him shudder with grief.

At long last, he drew in a long breath, and as he breathed out, he felt the pain subside, leaving only an empty feeling. "That's it, my boy." When had Grandfather put his arms around his shoulders? He pulled away to dig in a pocket for his handkerchief. "Steady, now."

Claude swallowed despite the brambles. "Crest doesn't do much for pain like this, does it?"

"Not in my experience." They sat quietly for a few minutes while Claude sniffled, trying to compose himself. "If you need to cry again, best do it now."

Instead, he blew his nose and tucked the handkerchief away. "The last letter from home said they were leaving for awhile." When had that letter arrived? He would have to dig in his trunk later.

Grandfather patted his shoulder. "So there's a possibility, but don't let hope blind you. If you do, the pain will only be worse later." Another pat. "I'm glad at least you were safe, and there's little chance anyone would think to look for you here."

So that was the reason to keep his Crest secret; Riegan was meant to be his secret haven in case things went sideways, just like with Jahan and the flowers. "How did it happen?" The pain ebbed, leaving anger and a frustrating helplessness in its wake; he had to know everything even if any possible retaliation was nothing but a pipe dream.

"Details are scant. Judith's spies barely got away with their lives. Apparently whoever did this started killing all the Fodlans in the city after the palace fell. All we know is it was another Almyran, a nomad chieftain from what I understand."

That narrowed it down a bit; they were all hardened warriors with windchapped skin like leather and ropey, muscular bodies. The strongest, it was said, could survive a week in the deserts on one skin of water and a small rock of salt. To tell the truth, they were the ones that caused a ruckus between Almyra and Fodlan, some rite of passage to brave the mountains to harry Almyra's western neighbor. "Did Judith tell you everything she knows?"

"Everything relevant." Grandfather looked severely at him. "Claude, I meant it when I said it stays in this room. Don't go looking for information from Judith or anyone else, it will only invite questions and attention that we don't want now. Who knows who might come looking for you."

That was something he hadn't considered; if he was the last of the royal family, what would happen? Would they want to kill him, too? From least important prince to the last. "Okay."

"Take the afternoon. I'll have Aaron tell the arms-"

"No." He shook his head. Being the least important grandson in a palace full of children had taught him one thing; to hide everything of value from anyone who might hurt him. "After all, what does Claude von Riegan care about the Almyran royal family unless it involves the Leicester Alliance?"

Grandfather clapped him on the shoulder. "That's right. Don't you ever let anyone see your weakness, especially the other lords. Without us, they would all be a bunch of middling peons bending the knee to some throne." He laughed and patted Claude's shoulder again. "If anyone can be brave in this moment, it would be Tiana the Traitor's son, hm?" He smiled as Claude looked at him, surprised. "I rather like that nickname of hers, to be honest."

He looked at the old man, and said quite seriously, "What do think Prince Dimitri thinks about Rufus' trade negotiations?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, finally I get to post this. I've had a chunk of this written since chapter six or seven waiting for the right spot for it to happen narratively. It almost happened before he became the official official heir, but I felt that it didn't feel right as I built Claude and Oswald's relationship. Poor baby Claude.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grandfather proposes a trip.

He couldn't sleep. They supped with Judith, and Claude was more than content to listen to the two of them discuss idle gossip around the Alliance. He left them to linger over the meal he had picked at until it was polite to be excused, and went to bed early. Once Aaron had been dismissed for the evening, he unlocked his trunk and pulled out the letters from home to read again. Nothing indicated how long his parents would be away from the capital in the last letter; he knew he would vacillate between hope and despair until he had confirmation.

The drawing of Marmoulak curled in on herself caused him to break down again, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle his cries. The thought of her dead was almost too much to think about; he could only hope whoever had burned down the palace took a fancy to his albino whelp. Sure, she was odd with that color, but she was clever and fearless; someday, if she still lived, she would make a mount fit for a king. 

As he laid there in the hollow of the bed surrounded by all his half-read books, he found himself with his eyes wide open as he watched the fluttering of the canopy in the dim firelight. _You're safe here_ , he tried to tell himself. This was supposed to be his haven, a secret that only a trusted few knew about. He ticked them off; his parents, Judith, Grandfather, Hamza. Not even Nader had been trusted with the information of where Tiana the Traitor hailed from exactly, just given a general idea of the Alliance. But something itched; he still didn't know where the damned hidden corridors for these rooms were, and that was a liability.

Candle in hand and trying not to shiver as he wandered around in only his nightshift, Claude set himself to examining the walls again, digging fingers into seams in the wallpaper and panels or leaning close to see if he could feel the faintest of breezes that would indicate an emptiness behind the facade. _Nothing_. 

He sucked in his lower lip and rolled it gently between his teeth, considering. Perhaps if he found the other side of the passage, he could follow it and find the way into his room. Yes, that was sound logic. It was late; no one would see him in his pajamas so he opened the door to his rooms to search the corridor and alcoves for passages.

At least, that had been the plan. Once he opened the door, there was a shout, and he was surprised to see a man standing there in leather armor, sword belted at his waist. "What are you doing?" His guard demanded after a moment's pause.

"I, um, just wanted to go for a walk. Clear my head."

He shook his head. "His Grace's orders are you're to stay in your rooms at night."

"So, what, I'm locked up until dawn?" Until Aaron came to fetch him and parade him all over the palace?

The guard shrugged. "Think of it however you like. Get back in there."

He considered arguing or running, but the thought of being manhandled in nothing but his nightclothes gave him pause, and so he obeyed and shut the door behind him. Had there always been a man at the door at night? He never had reason to leave his room at night before; there was too much studying to do, and he was given ample time during the week to satiate his wanderlust. 

_New plan_. If he couldn't sleep, there was no point returning to bed, so instead he wrapped himself up in a thick blanket and flopped onto the chaise by the window. He could just see a sliver of the sky in this position; looking at the stars had always helped him think, and he needed all the help he could get to ignore his itchy raw eyes and the erratic beat of his heart.

He didn't like being trapped in this room; now he was the recognized heir of Riegan and possibly the last scion of the royal family of Almyra. He had more enemies than friends; that was nothing new, to be honest, but petty pissing matches between him and his cousins wouldn't lead to someone literally sticking a knife in his back. There were _some_ benefits to being least important, after all.

Perhaps he'd feel better if he put a dagger under his pillow for bed. The one from home would do for now that he couldn't wear it during the day with his suits. It'd been foolish not to so far, if he was being honest. But that didn't change the fact that if someone did come to kill him, there was no way out of these rooms unless he wanted to pitch out the window and pray he only broke a few bones.

There were several apartments within the palace, most of them unused. He had no particular attachment to these rooms, and perhaps if he argued his case well enough, Grandfather would move him to a different set of rooms, one with a hidden passage that he could use if he was attacked. If not, well, at least he could get more information about why there were no passages in these rooms.

The moon, full and heavy, crept into view out the window. It was a nice night, clear for the first time in a long month of rain. Soon it would be spring and then of course summer. He could cajole some additional free time in his schedule and explore the wilds of the Riegan dukedom. _If_ he was allowed a ride out to wander on his own without a half-dozen guards tripping him up.

He yawned. It had been a long day, full of too much and yet he felt empty, so much so he couldn't even put pen to paper and write in his journal before bed. Maybe that was why he couldn't sleep. Slowly, he got up and took the journal from his chest. The candle still have half its wax left, so he uncapped the ink and dipped his pen. Date marked, he paused before he began to write. "There are no words to explain what happened today, so I'm not even going to try. Instead, here's a story I heard Judith tell my grandfather."

Aaron shook him awake the next day where he had fallen asleep draped over his journal on the desk. Inkstains on his fingertips and across the top of the desk where the pen had skittered across it after it had fallen from his hand. At least he hadn't tipped the open bottle.

His back twinged as he righted himself; not the best sleeping position. "Morning."

"Good morning, Lord Claude. I trust you slept well." He heard Aaron's movements around the room, the clatter of trays, the rustle of cloth, the man's footsteps.

At least he hadn't drooled, he thought as he uncreased the paper and shut the journal. "Tolerable. How are you?"

"Well, thank you. His Grace has time for you this morning." This is how it was always said; they weren't lessons, it was his grandfather carving out half days in his own busy schedule to teach Claude how to run a duchy and the Alliance before they were out of time completely.

"Perfect, I'm eager to speak to him." Breakfast consisted of two soft-boiled eggs with the tops already shelled and waiting in silver egg cups, bread lightly toasted, and fruit. Better than the usual porridge; he wondered who decided what he ate as he broke the whites to expose runny yellow yolk so he could soak his toast in it. A fussy breakfast, this, but he was grateful for the pomp as he tucked in. 

He took special care at the dressing table; this was war of a different sort, Claude mused as he scraped what little beard he had off his cheeks, and he best be prepared. No one could see his pain, and the more he practiced now the better he would be at pretending when it mattered.

Grandfather waited with his hands folded when Claude entered the study. "Good morning." He smiled as if nothing was wrong with the world.

"Good morning, my boy. I have something I want to discuss with you." He nodded, and Grandfather cleared his throat. "There's a manor house in the country that has been my summer residence ever since I was a boy. Last year I wasn't well enough to go." He paused, and Claude thought he saw something like nervousness cross the old man's features. "If you like, we should spend the summer there instead of Derdriu."

Months away from the city, to wander around fields and woods and who knows what else? To explore at his leisure, to ride a horse as fast and far as he could? "I suppose the work will follow you there."

He chuckled. "The paperwork never ceases. But I can at least blame some of the late replies to being out in the countryside and not in the city." His eyes fixed on Claude's. "By the Great Tree Moon the roads should be clear enough to travel by carriage."

Four weeks, and they could be underway. "That's more than the summer."

The old man shrugged. "Would you rather wait?" Claude shook his head, and Grandfather smiled. "So it's settled. If you prefer horseback, you certainly can make the trip that way instead."

"I'm looking forward to it." Papers shuffled on the desk as Grandfather readied his puzzle for today. "I have a request. My rooms here don't have a second exit."

"That is correct." His grandfather's eyes glimmered with amusement as if to say, _How long did you look?_ "It is also intentional. I raised your mother, after all."

 _Here we go_. "I think, considering the circumstances, that should be reevaluated."

"You're starting to sound like a man working out a trade deal. Tell me your reasoning, my boy." Papers were held out, and Claude took them and set them in his lap.

"If there's only one way out I could be trapped if something were to happen. One guard at night and none during the day is hardly enough if someone is really determined."

Grandfather held up his hand. "Two points of contention. One exit also means only one entrance, which means we control the pathway to your room. They would need to get past all the other guards before getting to your rooms."

"Fair point."

"Two, Aaron wasn't chosen to be your manservant just because he could read and the fact that he doesn't object to your eccentric habits. I saw him once grab the martingale of a rearing horse and pull it back to earth without hurting it or himself. He's strong and skilled, and I would have taught him to read." Fingers tapped on the desk. "However, I do understand your concerns. During the summer while we're gone we'll have your rooms moved to another if it will make you sleep better."

It was a small victory, but he'd take it. He nodded. "Thank you, Grandfather." It did put him at ease to know Aaron was there to protect him; he trusted the man almost despite himself.

A smile. "Go on, we've got work."

"Yes." He went to the desk and began to sift through the paperwork that was his task for the day. Ledger reconciliation, his favorite.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The von Riegans host a party.

And here he thought there was no fun to be had at a party in fussy old Fodlan. With the new year came an obligatory celebration hosted by Duke Riegan at the palace, and anyone with even a scrap of nobility tried their damnedest to be considered for an invitation.

Thank the gods he'd been practicing. Every morning with his usual vanity preparations, Aaron brought two basins of water. Claude washed his face, shaved when he needed it, and then dipped a rag in the second basin, this one filled with cold water, and pressed the wrung out rag against his eyelids until he looked less puffy and pathetic from his lack of sleep and crying. Not that he was sobbing like a child regularly or anything. Not the heir of the Riegan dukedom.

When the day approached and the staff began to buzz with activity in preparation Claude was certain he would be bored senseless, told to mind his manners and his tongue. After all, this would be his first public function as heir to house Riegan. But when he met Grandfather before the closed doors of the palace, the old man pressed a small box tied with gold and white ribbons into his hands. "Happy New Year, my dear boy. You can open it later."

 _Was it normal for gifts to be exchanged?_ The Almyran New Year was the first day of summer, and consisted of feasts and dancing throughout the whole of the capital once the sun set. No, better not think on that right now. "Thank you." He tucked the box in his pocket. "I didn't get you anything."

A pat on his shoulder. "You can get me the gift of thoroughly irritating the other Alliance lords." And that was permission enough. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Grandfather laughed, and the von Riegans turned toward the door, squaring shoulders. With a gesture, the palace opened to admit Leicester's finest.

His first victim: Duke Hercule Goneril, mostly because the man accosted him first as the lords and their families milled about, socializing. Again with the praises for his conduct with Hilda. "She's quite taken with you. I don't know how you managed it, but she finally stopped fighting with me about attending the academy."

Claude saw the girl in question out of the corner of his eye holding court with a handful of young men. He wondered if they saw what he did, specifically the way her eyes wandered down the skirt line of one of the prettier maids even as she flirted with her retinue. "She's a sweet girl, that Hilda. I'm looking forward to getting to know her better, and I hope we become _close_." With a slightly wicked smile and bow, he wandered off before Duke Goneril could find a response. Let him stew between reassessing his opinion of Claude as an upstanding young noble and the idea of the most eligible match of his daughter and the future Duke Riegan. 

Gloucester would be easy enough; he'd just pretend to agonize over which spoon was which during the soup course until the man's eye twitched in vexation. Claude's being himself was enough to frustrate the count and that would just be the icing on the cake for Grandfather's benefit. Moving on.

Edmund was a challenge. Claude knew enough to know that the man was second only to his grandfather in terms of skill in politics, and he knew very little about the Margrave personally. He retreated slightly from his position to gather his wits into the safety of Judith's company. Hilda and a man he didn't know were speaking to her as he approached, as well as a boy with her about six peeked out from behind her legs. "Grandfather sure knows how to throw a party," he commented after the usual greetings; the man was Lord Thayer, it turned out. Maxence's father was much like him, too impatient to really be useful at politics.

Hilda huffed. "This is hardly as good as last year. Duke Riegan didn't even hire any musicians, so there won't be a dance."

Thayer cleared his throat. "I heard it was on account of the young lord. Oswald told Countess Gloucester that he hadn't had time to hire a dancing master for Claude in time to be ready for the party." A glass swirled in his hand. "Heir to a dukedom who doesn't know how to dance? Most unusual. Where are you from, again?"

Claude smiled. "Far away from here. And I do know how to dance, but probably not in the way it would be done here with all the intricate steps and bowing and fuss. After all, every savage can dance."

He hit the mark; color touched the lord's cheeks. Despite whatever story he had spun out for Grandfather, he knew the man knew what really passed between Claude and Maxence. Thayer swallowed and wandered away without so much as an inclination of his head. Hilda giggled and she too wandered away with a farewell, back to her court of admirers. 

Judith glanced at him, a triumphant little smile on her mouth; he wondered if she had her own score to settle with the man. "Perhaps next time I'm in Derdriu I'll teach you to dance."

Something else he would owe Judith. "I'll try not to step on your toes too many times."

Her hand strayed down to the little boy clinging to her leg and played with his mop of brown hair. "This one does that enough. Fabrice, say hello to Lord Claude. He's going to be the next leader of the Alliance."

Blue eyes peered out from behind Judith's knee. "Pleased to meet you."

He smiled. "Pleasure's all mine, Lord Fabrice." A squeak, and he ducked behind his mother again. They laughed. "Your oldest, I'm assuming."

Judith nodded. "The heir of Daphnel. He's brave enough at home, but Holst frightened him earlier and so he's feeling a bit shy."

Claude squatted so he was almost eye level with the boy. "Don't worry about it, the Gonerils do that to everyone. I think even my grandfather is a little nervous when Duke Goneril gets going." That at least earned him a shy smile and giggle before the boy buried his face in Judith's leg again. He stood. "Back to it, I suppose. Bye, Judith."

"Bye, brat." She waved a hand at him in dismissal. 

Ordelia and Edmund were speaking to Grandfather; no better opportunity. The old man saw him first and waved him closer. "My dear boy." Claude obliged and was handed a glass of wine for his obedience. "I was just telling Achille and Anatole that you're attending the academy next year. Achille's daughter will be attending, as well."

He smiled and inclined his head. "I was unaware you had children, Count Ordelia."

At least he was trained enough to not let the surprise show on his face when Ordelia smiled back, even if it was a bit melancholy. "Just the one. My Lysithea might be a bit too young to attend yet, but she is determined." He studied Claude. "Hercule says you're a reliable young man, perhaps you could keep an eye on her? She's my pride and joy, and I want her to be happy when she's there."

First Hilda, now Lysithea. He would have his hands full of noble teenage daughters at the academy, and not in a pleasant way. "If I'm to be house leader, it would be my duty to take care of all the Leicester students, but I'll keep an extra close eye on your daughter, Count Ordelia." A thought struck him. "Grandfather, will Count Gloucester's son be at Garreg Mach next year as well?"

A polite smile. "That is my understanding, yes. He was considering this year but decided to go to the school of sorcery in the kingdom and delay a year."

Wheels turned in his mind. "What a blessing from the goddess that we should show such strength and unity by having four of the great noble houses of the Leicester Alliance represented at the academy next year."

While he set it up, Claude really had to give credit to his grandfather for delivering the _coup de grace_. "Anatole, you should really consider enrolling Miss Marianne in the academy next year. My Claude won't let anything happen to her, and wouldn't it be something if each voting house was represented? Especially in a year when Prince Dimitri and Princess Edelgard are rumored to attend."

Claude wondered if Margrave Edmund had ever stuttered quite as much as he did now, and he covered his trace smile with his wineglass. "She's a very, ah, special sort of girl."

Grandfather smiled. "We all think that about our children and grandchildren, but there is a time for them to leave the nest and begin to fly on their own while there's still time for us to catch them if they fall. Don't you agree, Achille?" The duke put a hand on Claude's shoulder to emphasize his point while he looked at Ordelia.

"Sometimes they do have to be pushed a bit," Ordelia seemed to also be hiding a smile. "In my dear Lysithea's case, sometimes I consider the need to weigh her down a bit to keep her eagerness from causing her to fly a bit too high than is prudent."

"I, ah, shall have to think on it." A bow, and he pretended as if Count Gloucester was requesting him across the room. No doubt they would be plotting and sniping shortly, but Claude was too amused to care much.

Ordelia moved away with a murmur, floating away in his ghostly way toward where Judith talked with some of the lesser lords.

Grandfather watched Claude as he drank the last of their wine, and the old man winked. Glasses set on a passing tray and two full picked up. "A very happy new year, my dear boy."

 _Definitely ate too much_. Claude stumbled into his room late that night after all the lords had left, and after he and Grandfather had a few minutes to laugh about the conquests of the day, they wandered to their separate rooms. He was full, tired, and still pleasantly warm from the last glass of wine of the night.

Aaron had left everything out just as it ought for bed; when had he found the time? Didn't matter, he supposed, and undid his jacket. Something rattled as he shrugged it off; Grandfather's present still in the pocket. Claude fished it out and set it on the desk before he finished changing into his nightclothes.

Ribbons came undone with a tug, and he opened the box. A gold pendant in the shape of a stag on a chain rested on a scrap of velvet. There was a note tucked in the lid, written in his Grandfather's elegant hand. "This was Godfrey's once, given to him by your grandmother, my wife. The stag is believed to protect the Leicester Alliance, and while I know you're probably skeptical of that, I would still like to see you wear it from time to time. Love, Oswald."

Carefully, he undid the clasp and secured the chain around his neck. There in the hollow between his collarbones the deer rested, bright against his skin. He lifted it, pressing the pads of his fingertips gently against the prongs of its tiny antlers. Something about it settled him; what an odd feeling, and he breathed out a sigh of relief as he let it go to bounce against his skin.

Pen, ink, journal. He would need to write quickly, lest Aaron find him sleeping on the desk yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please raise your hand if you've been personally victimized by the von Riegans.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riegans go on vacation.

All was chaos in the Riegan household the morning they were to make the trip to the summer house. Servants bustled about, loading trunks into the wagon that would follow Grandfather's carriage, checking and rechecking the contents to ensure the family and the staff traveling with them had everything they would need for the next five months. Books, clothes, games, hunting gear, ink and pens and journals and gods only knew what else.

Claude yawned and leaned against his horse's flank as he watched the scene. He asked to help and was shooed away by Marcel, so he had to be content in standing idle by the dappled mare and pet her while they waited. "I wonder what your name is, girl," he murmured with his face buried in her side, enjoying the warmth.

"Belle," Aaron said as he passed by carrying a short stack of books. "Bellemina when she's being difficult." The horse nickered at this with a toss of her head. "She's considering it now. Perhaps we should trade horses."

"I can handle her. I prefer a little stubbornness." He rubbed her neck in a soothing way, and she tapped a hoof against the cobbles. "She's just eager to get underway, as are we all." It was only half a day's ride on horseback, so it seemed a little silly to fuss so much about a couple missed books; the only reason they were setting out so early was it would take all day for Grandfather's carriage to reach the manor.

At last, all the trunks seemed to be order, and the palace doors opened to let the Duke Riegan pass. The mare let him mount with ease as his grandfather and Marcel climbed into the carriage. The crack of leather started the horses forward hitched to it, and Claude dug his knees into the Belle's flanks enough to get her walking. Behind him and Aaron, the wagon rumbled forward. It would be slow going until they were out of Derdriu proper and then they could work the horses to a steady trot.

The city was quiet as the passed through the streets, with only a few people out to see the duke and his grandson pass. A couple hurried bows directed their way, and Grandfather raised a hand to acknowledge the genuflections. When was the last time the old man left the palace, he wondered. Sick and family shattered, anyone could hardly fault the duke if he had collapsed in on himself in his final years. Gods only knew how thin Claude's control had been in the last few weeks.

A contingent of cavalry waited at the city gate. Without a word, they fell in around the carriage and wagon in a loose formation. More crackling leather, and Claude raised himself up in the saddle with sharp digs into Belle again to get her to speed. The road led in an easterly way; when the sun had fully cleared the Throat, the sun would be directly in their eyes for a good part of the morning. Still, he doubted he would mind all that much as he felt something joyous bubble up as their speed increased. Wind in his hair, the smell of spring thick in the dewy morning air, the sky clinging to the last of blue-black night; he missed the world outside of Derdriu. Oh, how he wanted to _run_.

Someone noticed; Grandfather leaned over the side of the carriage. "Stay in sight of the guards and on the road, and you can go on ahead a bit." Claude couldn't keep the grin from his face as the old man smiled in that indulgent way of his and gestured toward the road before them. A glance at Aaron, who nodded, and he leaned forward as Belle began to pick up speed at his command. The thunder of hooves, the smooth muscle of the creature beneath him, his exposed skin cold and numb from the cool morning air; Claude gave himself over to the sensations instead of being stuck in his own head.

"There's a hill up ahead," Aaron called after about a half hour, sounding as breathless as Claude felt. He nodded, and they pushed onward with a glance back; still in sight of the carriage. It would a good stopping point to let the horses rest a bit. They slowed back to a trot to climb the hill and stopped on the crest of the hill. "Your form is interesting," he commented as they dismounted to stake and water their mounts.

Claude laughed. "Where I come from, learning horseback is a step toward flying. It's safer to fall off a horse than off a wyvern, after all." It hurt to talk about home, but the ache seemed softer than before, lessened by the exhilaration of the ride. He looked around once the horses had been tended. From their vantage point, he could see the fields of the Leicester Alliance unfurled, verdant as the morning dew clung stubbornly to the long grasses, even this late in the day. So unlike the stubby grasslands of Almyra, but there was a beauty to it all the same. Yes, he could fall in love with these views, too.

By the time the carriage crested the hill, Belle was stomping again in her eagerness to get underway, but now it was the carriage and wagon horses' turns at a break. Again he was shooed away as Aaron and the others tended the animals. Grandfather stayed in the carriage, an arm draped over the side in an oddly lazy way that didn't quite suit his features. "It's a beautiful morning," the old man commented. "We're making good time."

"I'm eager to get there." Now that he was out of the city, Claude wanted to never return; he had missed this kind of freedom, even if the view was one he was unused to. On his way to Derdriu he had hardly looked out of the carriage, petulant and aching in his flight. What a missed opportunity; perhaps he would have loved the place a bit sooner if he had.

"As am I." Horses rested, they pushed on.

It was near sunset by the time they reached the manor. Smaller than the palace, it seemed almost quaint. _Only twenty rooms!_ Claude laughed a bit at himself at the thought. Though it was hardly more than an oversized farmhouse, it belonged to a duke with all the circumstance that went with that.

He dismounted as servants came forth from the stables, and he could see still more tending to the farm and garden surrounding the house. Others came from inside, maids and footmen to take the luggage. Above all of them, a woman waited at the top of the steps, a smile tugging at her lips. Face lined, there was something still very energetic about her. "You're late, Oswald. I've kept supper warm for you."

Grandfather smiled as they walked up the stairs together. "Thank you. This is my grandson, Claude. My boy, this is Enora, she runs the manor and is the head cook here."

Her eyes smiled even if her lips still twitched stubbornly as they fought to keep it away. "Pleased to meet you."

It worked; she beamed at last. "He's a sweet one. Go on, get changed and then we'll have supper brought."

The room given to him was quite a bit smaller than the one in the palace, but there was a cozy quality to the furnishings. An intimate, informal room, Claude liked it immediately. No breakfast table, only a desk and bed; the vanity table and dressing things were in another room attached to the water closet, curious. Aaron was rustling around the trunk with his clothes, and they fell into their routines as if nothing had changed.

He could hear murmurs in the other room; Grandfather and Marcel. "No, leave it, I'll do that after supper," he heard the old man say, and a murmur of assent from Marcel. Something to do with his illness, no doubt; the trip was nothing to Claude but had to be taxing to the old man. Perhaps he'd find a way to ask discreetly and find some excuse to interrupt so he could help. If he was clever enough.

Dressed, face washed, hair put into some sort of order, he made for the door but stopped when he saw the view from his window. The sky was purpling again, a faint sliver of blue sky on the horizon. Deep woods surrounded the tame farmland of the manor, interrupted only by a bit of wilderness around a pond not far from the house. An idyllic place; Claude was already half in love and he had yet to wander until he was sore and sated from exploration.

He found Grandfather already at the table, waiting. Supper was set, some sort of roasted rabbit, just the thing after the trip. "Well," he said as they tucked in. "Tell me what you saw today, my dear boy."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and the Riegan family vacation, part one.

No one cared how Claude spent his days at the manor house; not Grandfather as they discussed the letters redirected from Derdriu over meals, more interested in his opinion than making him work and study; not Aaron if he found Claude still in his bedclothes at noon on days he slept in and missed breakfast; not even Marcel even if he tisked at Claude's windswept hair after spending all day out wandering, checked with his grandfather's soft laugh and murmur of "Oh, don't fuss."

So he did as he pleased; rainy days could find him in the solar, and he would read or look out the window at the blooming countryside stretching out as far as anyone could see; rarely could anyone accuse Claude of being a romantic, but the sights from that window enchanted him, a welcome distraction from all but the most interesting passages of his books. Sometimes he and Grandfather played at twenty squares or some other strategy game, discussing anything and nothing at all.

Other days when the rains had passed but the world was still damp from the day before, he pulled on tall walking boots and wandered the fields surrounding the manor house. Enora, the cook, had been a midwife once and had birthed both Mom and Uncle Godfrey, and in exchange for her deep knowledge of the area flora, Claude collected useful things for her; herbs and mushrooms and flowers she would turn into meals or medicine for Grandfather's cough, poultices for a horse with a saddle burn on its side, herbal tea for sleep when she found Claude reading by the light of the stars. He would sit in the kitchen in the afternoons with a notebook scribbling her explanations at a furious pace to keep up with her mouth. Beside each note, he pressed a flower or sketched a mushroom.

Grandfather found them like that one afternoon, bemused at the sight. "Is it really that boring here, my boy?" He moved through the room with practiced ease. "I could always have you answer my letters instead."

"Oh, hush you, Oswald. We have an arrangement," Enora replied before Claude could. "If you want mushroom soup, you'll leave him be."

He chuckled as he leaned over to examine the notebook. "Learning all of Enora's tricks, I see. Well, if he's a bother, send him away. There are plenty of amusements for a young man to indulge in."

She shook her head. "He's cute and smart, so he's no trouble at all. Unlike you, meddlesome man." Hands on her hips, the cook stared down the Duke Riegan. "I suppose you're here because you heard they picked apricots this morning."

Never in his life would he have suspected his grandfather to even feel sheepish, much less show it. "Just the one." He held up his hand. "And one for my grandson." His other hand held a second which he set in front of Claude on his way out the door.

"One today, one tomorrow, until we're all out and he complains in the winter that there's no apricot jam." She was still shaking her head, but smiled as Claude picked up the fruit and took a bite; his third of the day. "If you eat any more of those you'll get a stomachache." 

After about six weeks, the days warmed and the rains became less frequent, and one morning Claude asked Aaron to have a horse prepared by the time he was done with breakfast. He ate with Grandfather in their comfortable silence; neither of them found it necessary to fill the hours with needless speaking, and he appreciated the old man's steady presence of the last few weeks.

Belle waited at the front gate for him with an impatient tap of her hoof on the stone work. He smiled and petted her mane; foreheads pressed together, they both relaxed. "I know." He pulled himself up into her saddle and with a squeeze, they were off. 

They wandered over the gentle rolling hills of the manor on those days, a bit aimless in the direction but not in purpose; Claude wanted to be alone. He found a spot with a good view and secured Belle to a study young tree. He laid out in the deep grass, closed his eyes, and for the first time since he passed through the threshold of palace Riegan, let himself be Khalid. 

They had been there, his parents, so close to the surface for these last few weeks, and the memories came thick and fast. It had been easy to keep Mom out of his thoughts over the last few weeks; he knew logically that Derdriu had been her home, but it never quite fit with her as a person in his mind. Papa had a bit more polish to him and so it was, ironically, easier to imagine him wandering the streets of the city mingled with the rest of the market. His mother had spent her summers here at the manor; had his father ever visited this place? Easy to see them together here, hiding their budding romance under the guise of long rides across the meadows to entertain a foreigner offering trade and maybe even peace between the two nations. He knew so little of how they came to know one another enough to fall in love; neither of his parents liked to talk about Fodlan, and he let it fall by the wayside.

Tears welled as he thought; they were so close and yet he could not touch, intangible as the bright sunlight pressing against his eyelids. This was not the frustrated sobbing he'd been working out late at night, half-hysterical bawling like a child as his mind refused to stop and let him rest. There was more frustration than grief in those long nights in Derdriu that left him with raw itching eyes and a sore throat. This was a quiet sort, each hitch of his shoulders softer than the last, but the hard pit of pain that had settled under his ribs since that day in Grandfather's study began to dissolve as he let the emotion wash over him.

At last, a quiet relief took the spot where the knot had been, more soothing than any caress could be. Perhaps not the last of his sorrow, but everything needed a start. He opened his eyes and wiped his face on his sleeve, heedless of the roughness of wool on his raw cheeks. Now, he could finally think.

It wasn't just his parents he lost, if they were in fact gone with the rest; if he was the last prince, Almyra herself was closed off to Khalid of the Traitor's Blood. Claude von Riegan could visit certainly as a foreign duke of another nation, but never again as the boy who knew every nook of every alley, sneaking naps away from all his cousins in the wyvern paddock or pinching pomegranates from the kitchen when no one was looking. Khalid could probably never be seen in public again; instead, he would have to become the man needed to helm the Alliance against whoever had taken over after the sacking of the capital. After all, no one would follow him if he came back home as Duke Riegan of Fodlan. Nader maybe, but even with his political clout he doubted they could gain enough support to mount a serious effort to retake the throne.

He sat up and looked out over the fields; yes, he could be happy here. As happy as he had been in Almyra, perhaps even more so if he was being truthful. Claude would be important and could shape the Leicester Alliance in a way he saw fit, even if he had to drag the other lords kicking and screaming along the way. That was what he would focus on; what did Claude von Riegan want the Leicester Alliance to look like when he was as old as his grandfather?

There, now he felt better. He had a purpose, a direction to focus all his energy. Claude stood, dusting off his clothes before untying Belle and hoisting himself into the saddle. She nickered, and he leaned forward to pat her neck. "Sweet girl." Knees dug in, they quickly worked up to a decent pace until the world was a blur of sensation and feeling, all his being intent on the ride.

It was mid afternoon when he returned to the manor house and he came upon a curious scene. Dismounted and reins handed over to a waiting stablehand, Claude walked across the small stone patio in front of the manor to where Marcel and his grandfather directed the unloading a pair of wagons laden with artwork, fine furnishings, and other valuable things. "What's this? Did we need more furniture?"

Grandfather smiled. "I'm glad you came back. Witness the fruits of your idea, my dear boy." He tilted his head, curious at the smug look on the old man's face. "You remember when you suggested I inquire about the children of those merchants who died with my Godfrey?" Claude nodded, watching as wagons continued to be unloaded. "Well, I made a few inquiries, and their son Raphael happened to be resolved to attend Garreg Mach next year to become a knight. Wouldn't take my charity to front his tuition and insisted on selling the family valuables and estate, so I obliged."

"All of it?" Even the house and all the land?

"Just everything that won't go with the estate itself. I've no interest in the house, it's too far from Derdriu." He was rocking back on his heels, pleased as a cat with a mouse. "I didn't even haggle over prices. Boy's not the brightest, and the guilt at fleecing him wouldn't have been worth the savings to my pocket." He chuckled. "Gloucester sent me a very interesting letter about the affair. Turns out he had his eye on the estate and now is in quite the fix about the price now that I've shown such generosity."

Claude let himself grin. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer man."

A chuckle, and he patted Claude's shoulder. "You will help the young man at the academy, won't you? The Goddess blessed him with strength and disposition enough to make a fine knight someday, it's a pity he's short on brains. But if he can scrape by on grades, he'll be snapped up by the first lord with more coin than the rest."

Hilda, Lysithea, Marianne, Raphael. Who else would wring a promise of help out of Claude before the term started? "Perhaps we could even hire him," he replied. Grandfather patted his shoulder again. "I'm starving, is there lunch still?"

"I'm sure Enora will make you something if there's not, seeing that you've got her wrapped around your pinky." She wasn't the only one, but Claude kept that comment to himself as they watched as the rest of the treasures were unloaded and brought into the house. Yes, there was value in his life here, and he found himself more than content with the day.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riegan family vacation, part two.

The days grew hot and long as summers tended to be, and soon enough the wools were put away and the linens brought out to wear. Suppers were lighter and served on the veranda behind the house where he and Grandfather could watch the sun set over the pond while they argued about everything from the arbitrary nature of nation boundaries to which fruits made the best cobbler; Claude suspected the old man took a contrary position to his own just to push him to defend himself. Grandather's cough eased, and Claude's broken heart began to heal. Even if both were illusions of being on the mend, they could pretend while the grasses grew long and green.

He could lay here forever, under this tree on this summer day; nothing had been more perfect in his life. Claude woke early and ate breakfast on the way to his favorite spot near the house with nothing but a skin of water, a book, and a blanket to spread out under the willow by the pond. He read, absorbed by descriptions and drawings of military formations and tactics. On the surface of it, Fodlan tactics and opinions on battalion positions varied widely from Almyran lines of thought; but only fools were satisfied with such a shallow view. Deeper under the surface, he began to see the truth of it, the similarities between the strategies and how the differences were the result of terrain only and not a divergence of purpose.

About midday when the letters began to run together, he stretched and rolled onto his back to watch the sky. For a brief moment, he missed it, a sharp clutch around his heart before easing; perhaps at the monastery he could take up flying lessons again. But even the thought of being airborne in the cloudless sky above him was more of a fancy than anything, and Claude was content being earthbound daydreaming than moving; there was something to be said about being completely lazy. It was hot in the sun, the breeze stiff enough to keep it from being overwhelming, and the birds sang sweet lullabies in the tree overhead. _Perfect for a nap_.

Footsteps, and he glanced over to a surprise; Grandfather approached, slowly making his way with a walking stick to aid him through the uneven meadowland. The old man rarely went further than the manor gate unless by carriage to attend business, and Claude worried he would overexert himself. Better not to fuss, however.

They didn't speak until Grandfather came close enough to remove his boots to step on the picnic blanket spread out under the tree. He sat down with only a minimum of grunting. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"It's a nice day, and I like this spot." Not too far away from the house so as to be a burden to have to walk back at the end of the day, but enough away to deter everyone but the most determined interloper. He had to admit he was glad to see his grandfather even as he worried.

"It is nice, isn't it?" He smiled. A glance, and he picked up Claude's book. " _Advanced Siege Tactics_. That's a little heavy for idle reading, don't you think? On your birthday, no less."

Was it? Claude counted back, trying to remember the number of days since he last noticed the date. "She has some interesting opinions on heavy artillery usage."

Grandfather chuckled. "We'll have a good discussion at supper, then." A pause. "You're an intelligent young man, and I'm blessed to have such a capable heir."

He flushed; it took all his self-control not to cry. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet. You don't know what your present is." A cough into his handkerchief delayed the conversation. Claude sat up while he waited for his grandfather to collect himself. "I apologize for not sending something on annually, but I hope this year makes up for it."

Claude touched the pendant at his throat, almost unconscious of the movement. "What is it?"

The old man gestured out over the fields of the manor. "This. The manor will be yours to manage as you see fit when you return from Garreg Mach. Of course, it will all be yours someday soon, but from now on this is where you can call home." He licked his lips. "When you come back from the academy, I hope you'll have companions who you'll want to entertain without your sick old grandfather wandering about making everyone nervous."

So, a practice run before he held all of the Riegan dukedom on his own; still, it was quite the gift, even from a duke. "I don't care what other people think." Not about him or his grandfather; let them snigger behind their backs if they wanted.

A laugh. "I was a young man once, as hard as that might be to believe. You'll appreciate having your own space away from prying eyes and your own income from the estate." Grandfather's eyes wandered over the fields, and he said softly, "I do hope you come back to Derdriu for the winter with me, before you leave."

It wasn't a lie or a trick; Grandfather meant for this to be his home, no strings or hesitations. But the thought of the old man leaving without him back to the lonely palace in Derdriu? Impossible. "Of course, I still have so much to learn." He hesitated. "Thank you."

They shared a smile, but then Grandfather cleared his throat. "I also have some bad news. I've had a letter from Judith, and I think we'll have to cut our trip short. Some trouble in the east."

"Oh?" A thrumming in his chest; he ignored it and kept his voice level.

He shrugged. "There's not a lot of details coming out of Almyra lately, but there was a whisper caught about war."

There was a war every other moon back home, usually nothing more than a dustup between two nomad tribes that got out of hand. Of course, there were more serious conflicts between Almyra and the Leicester Alliance, but he had never been important enough to know the reasons behind the hostilities. "With Leicester?"

"Judith's report indicates that it's confined to Almyra at the moment, but it always makes Goneril and Gloucester nervous when she hears something like this. I would like for you to sit in on the conference when it comes to that." There wasn't much to be done but to nod."What will do you?"

Claude turned and looked at his grandfather; Duke Riegan stared back. This was not a conversation between family any longer, and he hated it as much as he knew the old man did. He swallowed. "This is my home now, and I will defend it." To fight the ones that killed his parents? Yes, that he could do without hesitation.

"No matter the cost?" Another nod, and Grandfather's eyes turned skyward, following the puffy white clouds. Silence as he watched; Claude watched the man beside him, unsure if he still looked at the duke or his grandfather. "My father died when I was young, just a little older than you in fact," he said suddenly. "I wish I had been half as determined as you at your age. I didn't care for much beyond being an idle spoiled brat of a lord, chasing women, drinking at noon, hosting hunting parties that lasted for days, that sort of thing."

He glanced at the man's profile, but then looked up at the sky himself. "So that's where Mom got it." Wild and carefree; he could see that in the old man easily.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his grandfather's mouth curled into a smile. "Tiana was more like me than either of us would ever admit, that's for certain. If only I had paid better attention and not tried to make her into a proper noblewoman. I just hope that I've done right by her with you."

Grandfather's hand laid on the blanket, and Claude reached to put his own over it. "I love you, Grandfather."

A squeeze on his fingers. "I love you, my dearest Claude."


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude finds a secret passage, and and it leads to an unexpected place.

The trip back to Derdriu was miserable. Halfway back, the sky roiled, bruise-colored, and they had hardly time to pull the top of the carriage up and find shelter for the horses in a copse of trees before the hail began. "Shouldn't last very long," Aaron shouted over the sound of the stones battering their meager shelter. "It'll turn to rain quick enough."

It still seemed an eternity before the sky completed its assault and the pattering of rain replaced the sounds of hail. The Riegans sat, quiet and still while Aaron and Marcel went to check on the drivers and the horses. A hand found his own, and Claude felt a soft warmth on his arm at the touch. He looked over; even in the dim light, the old man seemed pale. "You'll stay in the carriage with me for the rest of the trip," Grandfather said once they were alone, a rare command from grandfather to grandson. Fine by him; Claude disliked riding in the rain, and all the cloaks were packed away.

The horses checked for injuries; none had been struck by the hail, thank the gods. Quickly they were hitched back to the carriage and wagon, including Belle and Aaron's horse, and with the manservants back in the carriage, they continued on through the downpour.

It was past midnight by the time they rolled into Derdriu, sodden and exhausted. Grandfather had begun to nod off and had to be shaken awake to convince the gate to let them pass. The streets were empty, with not even a stray dog wandering around to welcome them home, and the palace the same with not a light in any of the windows. "Don't bother unloading the wagon tonight. Just tend the horses and get to bed." Grandfather shook off Marcel's protest before he even opened his mouth. "We'll get something from the kitchen and go to bed directly."

A bit of yesterday's bread and cheese took the edge off hunger, eaten quickly by candlelight in the larder. Grandfather's breathing was labored, and had such a violent coughing fit Claude grabbed his elbow to steady him before he collapsed; he could see the flash of blood before the handkerchief disappeared. "Let me help you to your rooms."

Slowly they made their way to the family wing of the palace to the door of the ducal apartments. Grandfather cleared his throat. "Your new rooms are next to mine." It was hardly a whisper, but he nodded that he understood. "Go on, I can make it to bed on my own."

"Goodnight, Grandfather." He waited a moment, listening to the sounds on the other side of the door; if anything, he would hear the old man hit the floor if he collapsed. All seemed well, and so he passed through the door to his own rooms.

Gods, he was tired. Curiosity itched at him to explore these rooms; bigger than his old apartment, and appeared to be furnished in tastes closer to Claude's own. But there would be more than enough time tomorrow to explore, tomorrow and the days after. A quick search of the dressing closet provided a nightshift and so he changed and fell into bed, hardly remembering getting under the coverlet before falling asleep.

He awoke to the sounds of movement in the next room; groaning as the bright sunlight assaulted his eyes. _What time is it?_ Noon or close enough, if the position of the sun was any indicator. They must have been bringing the trunks up from the wagon. "Aaron!"  
The door opened, and Aaron bowed. "Apologies for the noise, Lord Claude."

"Don't worry about it. Are my clothes in the rooms now?" A nod. "Could you bring me the, uh, blue suit." He yawned. "Where's Grandfather?" Now that he had slept, he worried about what he had seen.

"Duke Riegan is resting today. Marcel has explicitly said no one is to enter the duke's rooms."

Claude considered this as he dressed; he could wait patiently to check on the old man, or he could throw his authority around and force the issue. _No, better to wait_ , he decided at last as he settled into a meal. There was no reason to push the issue and squander what little goodwill he had with Marcel; as often as they were at odds, he would need every scrap of it when it was really worth the fight. If there were something very wrong he would have to trust Grandfather to tell him.

A glance around the room; he had been promised new rooms with secret exits, and now it was a matter of finding them. Breakfast finished quickly, he shooed everyone but Aaron out of the rooms; he could shelve his own books, thank you kindly. His manservant laughing at him was tolerable, but he'd rather not look the fool to the entire staff. First, he examined the rooms themselves; instead of being two rooms and a water closet, this apartment had four, all with solid doors between. Bed, dressing, sitting, and bath with the water closet. Finely furnished in a mostly Alliance style, he could still see hints at his other half here and there; it made him wonder who had directed the decor.

Once he had his bearings of the rooms, he paused to consider which room was most likely to have a passage. Bath and dressing seemed least likely, being attached to the bedroom in such a way that would limit where the passage would lead to. So bedroom or sitting; if they were clever, it would be the bedroom to give the most access to a second exit. There might also be one in the sitting room, but that could be found later.

The sunlight was bright enough he didn't need a candle to examine the walls and floor for evidence of a concealed door, and Claude set himself to examining wallpaper seams for what he hoped would be the last time. There on the wall furthest from the windows, a slight peeling of wallpaper. He pressed a cheek against it, encouraged by a nearly undetectable breeze. Fingernails dug into the spot where it peeled, and with ease the wall slid inward into a passage. He practically gloated at how quickly he had found it; too bad he couldn't see his grandfather today to tell him how he had been awake for an hour and already figured out the second exit.

He had no shoes to remove, and so he followed the passage on his stocking feet and considered where it could lead to. Somewhere in the family wing, that was certain, but it did not seem to go very far; he could already see light from a crack on the other end.

It opened into another set of apartments, he determined as he leaned close to the crack before opening the door. A sinking feeling settled in his chest as he did so; he _knew_ these apartments, and he knew the man sitting on the sofa with a book in hand.

Claude stared at Grandfather; the old man stared back, tea halfway to his lips. He felt his mouth twitch even as Grandfather's did. "Seriously?" _Curse this clever old bastard_.

Grandfather laughed, loud enough to assuage Claude's fears of him being seriously ill. Tears streaking his cheeks, he set down his teacup to keep it from spilling over as he shook with mirth. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, but you never stipulated where you wanted the passage to lead. You should have been suspicious when I gave in so easily."

He sat down on the sofa. "That was a dirty trick." But still he smiled; rarely had he been bested in a contest of wits and he could appreciate Grandfather's genius.

A shrug even as he still chuckled. "Politics is a dirty business. If you're not prepared to bloody your hands, might I suggest a different profession?"

"As if I have a choice in the matter." He examined the old man; pale, but he seemed to be recovering. "How are you feeling?"

"Tolerable. Traveling in the rain always causes me issues." He picked up his tea again. "By tomorrow I'll be well enough to leave the apartment."

A knock, and the door opened to allow Marcel, carrying a small basin, bandages, and a bright handled knife. "I thought I was very clear about the duke being uninterrupted in his rest today," he said with a critical eye directed at Claude.

"He found the passage." Grandfather took the supplies from Marcel and waved a hand. "On your way." He began to roll up his sleeve.

A hiss of pain, a flash of red against the silver knife; Claude couldn't repress a shiver as he watched his grandfather cut a thin line in the skin of his forearm and draped it over the basin to drip out. "I have my doubts that this works," he murmured.

Grandfather chuckled and picked up his tea. "Enora's concoction does seem to be more directly effective. She taught you?" He nodded; before he left for the monastery he would replenish the palace supply. Quietly they watched the blood drip in the basin, and Claude helped his grandfather bandage the cut when he determined enough had been spilled. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude runs into a familiar face in the market.

The market hummed in full swing for summer. It was a warm day, perfect for a wander around town with a full purse after chapel service. He needed a new journal again, his current journal filled with his wanderings around the manor house and grounds. Two were purchased, both with soft leather covers embossed with the Leicester coat of arms. When he left for Garreg Mach he'd buy a few more just in case; Goddess only knew what kind of merchants bothered to visit a monastery in the mountains.

The bookseller had new books on myths of Adrestria, and he picked out a couple that seemed most interesting. Any passersby would think him a most devout follower of the Seiros scripture with his interest in the Relics; if they only knew his interest was in their power and not their supposed holiness. The books put a dent in his allowance, and yet he still eyed the others that had been lucky enough to avoid his grasp, covetous and frustrated that knowledge was held back by his lack of income.

Last, he entered the silversmith's shop. With some prodding, he had teased his grandfather's birthday out of Enora, and needed a suitable gift. The man's favorite letter opener had snapped this last week after only fifty years of correspondence, and the old man frowned every time he used the hurriedly purchased replacement. One caught his eye of silver and mother of pearl and almost identical to the broken one. The clerk gave him a wary eye, and rightly so; a teenage boy agonizing over letter openers was hardly a common sight even if he was in his lordly church outfit. But when he passed over the silvers without complaint at the price, the clerk seemed to brighten a little and even offered to wrap it.

Of course, he had to pay a visit to Farah; instead of hot tea she gave him a cup of mint and cucumber water and too many skewers. If he ate like this everyday he would be in danger of growing sideways instead of tall. Gods how he missed Almyran cooking; perhaps he could convince Enora to learn some recipes when the manor became his permanent home. Or, a passing thought; perhaps he could even find some Almyrans who were displaced such as he was and hire them in his staff.

Full and pleased with his purchases, he meandered back to the carriage line. He had told Aaron to go enjoy himself, but no doubt the man was still by the carriage. It was supposed to be his day off as well and yet was still willing to come with Claude on his shopping trip. Next he would need to figure out a suitable present for the stubborn man; perhaps he'd ask Grandfather his advice on the subject.

A hand grabbed his arm and before Claude could shout, he found himself being pulled into an alley. He flailed a bit to reach for the knife in his sleeve before he heard a familiar voice hiss in his mother tongue, "Don't try it, Khalid." Deep in the shadows of the narrow alley, he was released, and for the first time in a year found himself staring at Hamza. She tisked, frowning at him. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you?"

"I've been out of town. Why-"

She shook her head. "I almost didn't recognize you in these foppish clothes, and no earring? Tell me something only you would know."

"Hamza." She shook her head, and he considered her. "Marmoulak, is she safe?"

At last, she grinned with a short barking laugh. "That's your first question? Nader took your little lizard to his fortress the same time you left. Good thing, too, as Jahan started demanding to have her killed the minute he was lucid."

And here he had mourned that prick. Claude shrugged. "Anyone would ask about my parents. Are they-"

"Safe, yes. At least when I left they were still alive." He bit his lip and covered his mouth to keep the relief from overwhelming him. She watched but made no move to comfort him. "We weren't in the palace when it happened. I have a message." No letter? No, that would be too dangerous if she was caught. "Your parents and Nader are gathering allies in Almyra to take back the throne."

He stifled his emotions; it was time to think, not feel. "Will it work?"

Hamza made a noncommittal noise. "If we can get enough support, it will be a fair fight at least, but Farid has the majority of the nomad tribes behind him." She looked at his face. "Your parents want you home to assist."

Claude swallowed, considering. Home, back to Almyra in the heat and sun to fly wyverns, a warrior in his own right. But then he thought of Grandfather, dying alone in that big palace, fighting with the other lords to keep their baser desired in check. Or worse, the house Riegan fallen and Gloucester at the helm. He shook his head. "I can't."

"Khalid-"

"The Leicester Alliance knows there's conflict in Almyra. No, Hamza, listen to me." He shook his head again as she opened her mouth to argue. "There are lords who would gladly take advantage of the discord and push an offensive war against the Almyrans. What chance do Mom and Papa have of gathering support if there's a chance Almyra will need to unite against the Alliance? If I stay here, Grandfather and I can try to keep that from happening." He leaned back against the wall. "It will already be an uphill battle with Mom being a Fodlander."

A snort, and then Hamza laughed. "Actually, your mother has been quite the folk hero. They've even started calling her Tiana the Demon Queen."

"Better than Traitor." He smiled. "Tell my parents that I'll do what I can, but I can't leave my grandfather. I have obligations here."

"So you are going to be the next duke." He nodded, and she looked at him with a curious look. "If we win, you'll be the crown prince."

"If." He licked his lips, thinking. "Tell them I love them, and," Claude hesitated; just what did he want to say? He couldn't betray the old man's confidence about his illness, no matter how much he wanted to. "Tell Mom that Grandfather misses her, very much."

That curious smile continued to play across her face. "You really aren't the boy I used to sling over my shoulder when he was being particularly petulant anymore. One day I hope to see you on the throne of Almyra." She held something out; a leather bow sheath with prayers to the gods of war on the surface in Almyran. "From your parents." He took it with a nod, and then Hamza bowed low to him. "Be well, your Highness." A pause, and she reached out to grab his earlobe. "And put that back, for gods' sake. Honestly, how dare you take it out in the first place." With that, she was gone. Damn, and he had more questions.

Claude sighed and tilted his head back. Relief, yes; he felt relieved that his parents were alive. But did everything have to be so complicated? It was going to give him a headache worrying about what to do if Papa took the throne.

He had to get back to the palace. Aaron didn't say anything and only raised his eyebrow as they climbed into the carriage. "Home, and quickly, please." A smart rap on the carriage roof, and they were off.

He shooed the manservant away when they came to the apartment and once alone inside the room, Claude dropped the present from his parents and his purchases beside the cloak rack and removed his shoes. Next, he moved into the bedroom and through the secret passage; he needed to talk to his grandfather. A glance into the room found the old man alone and reading. He knocked the agreed-on pattern as a courtesy. "Enter." A hand held up as Claude entered, Grandfather's eyes still fixed on the book. "You are interrupting a most interesting passage."

"Sorry. I have something to tell you, and it couldn't wait." He walked around to stand beside his grandfather and waited until his place had been marked and the book shut before he leaned over to whisper, "My parents are alive and starting a war against the usurper."

Grandfather blinked twice, and then patted the sofa. Claude sat. "Marcel!" The door opened, and he was only mildly surprised to see Aaron there with a tea service. The old man seemed pleased as well. "Saves us a step." His face turned severe, and he eyed Marcel. "Chase out the rats."

The steward paused, then began removing his shoes; Aaron copied him in the movement. "All of them?"

A chuckle. "If you're asking if you can get rid of the Daphnel spies as well, the answer is yes. It's been too long and they've gotten complacent." He paused. "But try not to kill Judith's men if you can help it. She is still my friend."

Never would he have suspected Marcel to be capable of looking so feral; Claude suppressed a shudder at the grin on his face. A knife slipped out of his sleeve, he gestured for Aaron to follow him. A pounding noise from behind the wall; someone was running, heedless of all stealth. "Complacent indeed. Amateurs." A panel slid away, and the two men disappeared.

"Give them a moment, and then it should be safe to talk." Grandfather poured tea for the both of them, his head cocked as they listened to the sounds of spies scuttling away before Marcel and Aaron caught them. "Your man knows how to brew tea. I knew I chose well."

_No argument there_. "He's a very useful person to have around."

Grandfather nodded. There was a rapping sound in one of the walls, and his face turned serious. "Tell me everything." He listened without comment or question for a full half hour, until Claude was out of words and they were on their second cups of tea; Aaron and Marcel had not yet returned. The old man tapped his fingers on the porcelain after he finished telling it all, and then he nodded again, almost to himself this time. "I'll write to the other lords directly and call a conference. Your logic is sound, even if your motives are complicated. If you can win over the Gonerils with your argument, I'll speak to Ordelia. We've just come off a war and he's in no position to engage in another, nor does he have the desire to."

It was almost too much to hope for. "So you agree?"

Another nod. "Yes, we will keep the Alliance out of Almyran affairs as much as we can."

With that settled, Claude slipped back into his apartment. Alone at last, he considered the conversation with Hamza again, and nodded to himself; this had been put off too long, but perhaps it was the right time. He had just needed a little push, and Hamza had always been good at giving well-timed shoves.

His trunk waited. Cipher keys twisted under his deft touch, and he opened his chest. The new bow sheath put away, he began to dig. Buried under the oddities and treasures he'd been collecting was an envelope, and he shook it out over his waiting palm. His earring gleamed there, untarnished from its long period of neglect. Really, the jewelry itself was of no importance, something he had purchased on a whim, but having the piercing itself was special; it marked him as a man of the royal family. He learned later about how his father had fought for it to be done until Grandpapa relented, and when he was four the king had pierced his earlobe with a hot needle and twisted an emerald stud into the new hole. He hadn't cried despite his age, something Papa was immensely proud of.

He wondered where that emerald stud had gotten to; stolen by a cousin, most likely, or lost. At least the piercing hadn't closed up, and the ring slid into the hole without trouble. Claude looked at himself in the mirror, feeling strangely settled now he could see the earring back in place. A Fodlan boy with a wink to Almyra. No one here would know what it meant, but he would know, and that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I have an official chapter count! We are coming to the end of Mr. von Riegan's adventures.
> 
> These chapters might come in slower than before, just because I want to make sure I tie up all my pretty little loose ends best I can.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude and Oswald have a fight.

Grandfather stared into his eyes from the other side of the desk, frowning in a way that Claude had not been subjected to before from the old man. Claude smiled back, nonchalant against the old man's displeasure. They had been at the same impasse for nearly a week now, the both of them intractable in their position. At least now he understood why his mother and grandfather had such a terse relationship. "You look like a Goddess-cursed scoundrel. Take it out."

Claude shook his head. "It's my ear, and I'll do what I please with it." He tugged on the offending lobe. "Perhaps I'll even get one of those earrings with the cuff and chain that hooks up here," he continued with a gesture.

He was surprised that sour look could deepen, yet here it was. The Duke Riegan was unused to being contradicted or refused, especially in such a blunt way, and Claude could tell the man was doing his best to hide his irritation. "You will do no such thing. This is my house, boy, and you'll listen to me."

He put his hands behind his head. "This is not up to par with your usual arguments, old man. It'll take more than that-"

A sputter. "Old man?"

"-to convince me to take it back out. I've had this piercing since I was a child." He smiled the wider Grandfather frowned; as much as Claude hated disappointing him, he would be Fort Merceus to his grandfather's siege army. "Can I have my task today, please?"

Grandfather grunted and waved a hand. "You're dismissed, because I don't want to have to look at that thing half the day."

"Are you sure? I see a letter from Lord Acheron, I enjoy answering those. In fact, I can answer it without even reading it. 'Lord Acheron,'" he put on a snooty tone, "'A thousand greetings from the most illustrious house of Riegan. I have reviewed your request with the most diligence and consideration possible, and I have come to a decision.' New line. 'No. Kind regards, Oswald von Riegan.'"

Was that a smile making Grandfather's mouth twitch? Not possible. "You've been absolutely unmanageable this week. Perhaps we ought to increase your arms training so you're too tired to think up your little witticisms."

He shrugged. "Have I done something else to offend? Has my work and conduct not been exemplary other than this?" Claude tugged on his ear again. "I'm surprised a man of your stature cares so much about one little bit of jewelry."

Fingers twined together, he put his hands on his desk. "When it makes my grandson look like some kind of pirate, I care very much."

"I'm just trying to do my part as the heir of Riegan to set some trends. After all, leadership is more than the political. Shouldn't we also be the fashion and cultural leaders of the Leicester Alliance?" He grinned. "I think Holst in particular would look rather good with an earring."

"Claude-" 

He held up his hands. "You told me to go, so I'm going. I'll see you at supper." He left, whistling. It may have been a draw this time, but he would win the long game.

If he had nothing to do for the morning, it was back to the books. If he couldn't return home yet, perhaps he could find something to send instead. A weapon, armor perhaps, something holy and secret and unclaimed. In Garreg Mach he'd have more resources even if he was sure that collection would be well curated against any hint of blasphemous thought. It was really too bad Mom didn't have the Crest of Riegan; but even if she did, Grandfather would have him put in an asylum if he suggested sending the Relic across the border. She was never much for archery, anyway.

No other Relic would do; just where was the Sword of the Creator? As fitting such a precious thing no one had seen it since Seiros killed Nemesis. A precious secret he wanted to unearth, but even _The Heresy Trials of the Early Church_ , a book he kept hidden in his trunk since its purchase, gave no indication as to what happened to the weapon. A sword that could cleave mountains; he definitely needed to cut a few mountains down if he was to be both Duke Riegan and the Crown Prince of Almyra.

He tugged on his earlobe. It had been almost a year since he had taken the earring out and now it felt a bit foreign in a way he had never known before; perhaps it had always been a little alien but he had grown accustomed to the feeling. Maybe it would always be this way for him, the comforting things of his life always coming with a bit of wrongness, a bit of discomfort to remind him that he didn't really belong anywhere.

Nonsense; everyone had a place and a purpose. If Claude didn't have a place on this land, well, he'd just make himself one. He had promised himself on that hill by the manor when he thought his parents were dead, and that hadn't changed.

He tugged on his earring again; that resolve certainly had not changed, but he had. Claude was no longer that idle, petty princeling brought by carriage to his grandfather as a last resort for his misdeeds. He had responsibilities whether he liked it or not. Grandfather depended on him, even trusted him a little. As much as it ached, it had been the right decision to stay in Derdriu; he was most useful here, at least when he and Duke Riegan were getting along.

 _Grandfather._ He sighed, thinking about their week-long disagreement. If only he could explain why he was reluctant to remove the offending jewelry, but that was impossible with the rats in the walls. Maybe at supper he would try.

He had a meeting with the tailor's assistant to pick out his Officer's Academy uniform; he was surprised that a military academy would offer options, but then again it was for spoiled noble brats. The long coat caught his eye, mostly because in the drawing it showed it was worn with a loose shirt underneath instead of a starched white thing with buttons. How he hated those shirts and their confining collars. Next, pants; perhaps he could finally get something a bit looser on his legs.

Lunch, then training; today was horseback archery, tiring, but only due to the amount of muscle it took to stay on the horse while aiming. He only missed one target, and after the appropriate amount of talk about why, he was released to dress for supper. "The green one," he said when he entered before Aaron could ask the inevitable question. He ought to look his best if he was to convince his grandfather to see his side.

White fish in a butter sauce, some kind of wilted greens, soft white bread; could be worse. Grandfather was resolute in looking at his plate and not Claude. "Well, what did you see today?"

"The archery master was decidedly put out that I hit almost all the targets. He practically lectured me on being too good." He considered his day when his grandfather didn't reply. "I picked out my uniform for the Academy." Next week they'd take his measurements and by the time the Great Tree Moon rolled around, he would be off to a formal school for the first time in his life. "The tailor's assistant tried to convince me the long coat was horribly unfashionable and no one else would be wearing that style but," he shrugged, picking a bone out of his filet, "I figure it'll be warmer than the jacket." He doubted he'd be allowed to wander around the monastery with a blanket for a cape.

Still no reply. Claude looked up; his grandfather was staring back at him over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable; it was the same one he had when he asked if Claude wanted to go to the summer house. The old man cleared his throat. "You still intend to go?"

He frowned, taking his time to chew while he considered his response. "I was under the impression I didn't have a choice. I believe your exact words were 'I would hate to lock you in a carriage all the way to Garreg Mach.' Has that changed?"

Wine swirled in the glass in his hand. "So you are staying." It was quick, but Claude's eyes were sharp; Grandfather glanced at the damned earring again, and suddenly he understood. The old man knew. Claude nodded, and at last the old man took a sip. "Why?"

His brow furrowed. "I thought it was obvious." How to explain without saying it outright? "I'm more useful here."

"And what happens if all turns out in our favor?" Grandfather leaned forward, elbows on the table, heedless of all manners. "What then?"

Claude smiled. "I think if it comes to pass, then _that_ won't matter."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you said 'our.'"

Claude ate while he watched the duke consider those words. So many bones; this is why he hated fish suppers, there was so much fuss about them. "Marcel!" _Indech, Macuil, and Cichol_. The door opened. "Tell the arms master he will not be seeing Lord Claude until after the conference."

He raised an eyebrow as Marcel shut the door again. "No training?"

The old man picked up his fork and knife, and began his own hunt for fish bones. "We've too much to work out before the conference." He paused and looked up again at Claude's ear. "I still hate it. It makes you look like that scoundrel you call a father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude attends the roundtable conference.

Now, to scheme. All of Claude's lessons and suppers with the Duke Riegan were spent hammering out their strategy to get the votes needed. They had read every letter and argued every possible meaning behind the responses; the servants started to ignore any shouting they heard from the duke's study or from the dining room. Claude dreamed of writing sarcastic responses to Edmund's letters that dream Grandfather tore up before his face with a crueler look than he thought the old man capable of.

At last, the conference was upon them. Claude woke, ate, bathed, dressed, the entire time he mind abuzz as he went over the plan. Everything had to be perfect or it could all fall apart; there were no contingencies for a plot like this. He checked himself over one last time in the mirror. This had been one of the most hotly argued points; should Claude be impeccable in his outfit so the lords take him seriously, or would it be better to have a bit of carelessness as a distraction? At last they agreed, and every time he swallowed this throat strained against the collar of his jacket. But he had to admit, he looked good.

A tapping of their code, and he heard the wall slide away in his bedroom. A moment later, Grandfather appeared behind him in the mirror, dressed and ready for the day; even he had taken special care in his dress. "Good morning, my boy."

"Good morning, Grandfather." One last tug on his sleeves, he turned around to face the Duke Riegan.

"Any questions?" Claude shook his head, and they smiled. "I'm depending on you."

"Same to you."

He chuckled. "The cheek." They parted, Grandfather to the front door to greet the other roundtable votes, Claude to the conference room with Aaron as a shadow. He could see a late summer rain outside the tall palace windows, bringing with it a whisper of autumn. Back to wool suits soon and miserable arms training in the rain and muck.

Someone fell into place beside him, and he turned his head slightly to see Judith's face in profile. "What are you and Oswald up to, boy?"

 _How in the world did she get into the palace?_ Never mind; that was a question for another day. "I'm shocked you don't know. You've got more spies in the palace than anyone."

She huffed. "All you've talked about lately is your hair and outfit and the way you ought to address the other lords. Whatever it is you're going to convince the other lords of I'm not privy to. Your man saw to that."

"He swung at me first, Lady Daphnel," Aaron replied from behind them. "I hope he's recovering well enough."

A snort. "That one was always a bit touched in the head, so its difficult to tell."

Claude waved a hand. "You'll find out soon enough, Judith. Unless you're worried about the safety of your hiding spot." He grinned.  
"How many times do I have to repeat myself? Lady Judith, you brat." She glanced back. "I could take your man, easy."

"Of that I have no doubt, Lady Daphnel," Aaron replied. 

"Why is it that your attendant has better manners than you, boy?"

He shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess." He gestured toward the alcove with the entrance to the hidden passage. "I'll see you later." They parted there, Judith still muttering under her breath. Claude continued on to the conference room.

There were two chairs at the head of the table, Grandfather's high-backed chair that was just short of a throne and a smaller chair beside it. He sat down in the former and examined the room. Holst was expected to be in attendance, so it would be as usual with Edmund and Gloucester to the right, the Gonerils on the left, Ordelia at the foot, and Daphnel in the wall.

Up close, his eyes followed the winding curves of the terrain carved into the table. He could have marked the political divisions with his eyes closed, but he wondered what it would be like if the continent were whole under a single ruler again. _An impossible fancy_ , that. There would always be conflict, be it here or home.

Muffled voices and footsteps grew louder; Claude sat up a bit straighter as Marcel opened the door. Grandfather at the fore, he winked at his grandson as he made his way to the chair beside Claude. Both of the Gonerils and Ordelia showed no surprise at the sight, but he thought he detected a slight paling by the Margrave.

Was Count Gloucester never not sneering at him? "Why is your grandson in your seat, Oswald?"

Grandfather looked up from his notes, his face neutral. "My Claude learns best by doing, so he will be running the meeting." He paused. "Heirs are always welcome to sit in on the conference as they get old enough to understand. If Lorenz wished, he would be more than welcome to sit in or act as your proxy." Something told him that was the last thing Count Gloucester wanted, and he sat down without comment. Claude knew his grandfather well enough to see he was suppressing a smile. 

Right, to work. He made a pretext of looking down at his notes, as if he hadn't practiced these words for the last week in the mirror. "Well, I've called the conference today to discuss the matter of the recent reports of an uprising in Almyra."

Duke Goneril laughed. "If burning down the palace is an uprising, I wonder what you would consider a full scale war, Claude."

He smiled even if he didn't share in Hercule's mirth. "That was a tidy little coup, I have to admit. But we've received information that one of the princes survived and intends to take back the crown. There will be a war within Almyra, and we need to discuss our response, if any."

Claude continued to affect a innocuous smile as the talk continued. Goneril started. "We've heard that, too. Ali, the fifth son of the old king, wasn't it, Holst?"

Alai, called the Starry-Eyed for his penchant for wandering around staring at scenery to sketch, and he was Grandpapa's fourth son. _But close enough._ Holst nodded. "Got himself one hell of a wife, they say. They're already calling her the Demon Queen, and she took on a whole battalion of wyverns and won."

Edmund shook his head. "Even the women are savages over there." At least now he didn't have to fake his smile; if the margrave only knew.

Now Gloucester. "Considering the situation, perhaps we ought to consider the potential of an offensive war against Almyra. If they're divided against each other, it might be the right time to make our first offensive move in the east."

Holst's eyes gleamed. "We've been scouting the terrain, and there's enough time to get an army through the mountains before winter sets in. We'd have to be careful not to get caught between a blizzard and the Almyran army, but it is feasible."

Silence; Claude let it hold for a long minute as the others considered it, and then leaned forward and put his folded hands on the table in a near-perfect imitation of his grandfather. "Do you want the Almyrans to stop bickering with each other? Nothing would unite them faster than an invasion from the west." He waved a hand, ignoring the constricting feeling in his chest; he hoped any quaver in his voice would be chalked up to nerves. "Let them kill each other, and we can hope whichever leader that comes out the winner will be a bit friendlier toward the Alliance than previous leaders."

At the foot of the table, Ordelia cleared his throat. "He has a point; the Almyran invasions even united all of Fodlan for a time to build the Locket. Even if the victor wants to kill us all, there will be less of them at the end of a civil war."

"If we could get our army to surprise them, they wouldn't have a chance to rally together," Gloucester argued. He looked at Edmund for assistance, who nodded. "I can't imagine Holst couldn't find a way to secret an army through the Throat."

Claude wanted very dearly to laugh in the man's face, but instead allowed himself a small, patient smile. "Even someone with Holst's considerable military prowess isn't invisible to wyvern scouts, and Ali is known to be allied with Nader the Undefeated."

Holst looked surprised. "None of our reports have mentioned that. How can you be so sure?"

 _Because Papa and Nader practically grew up sleeping in the same cradle._ It was Nader's steadfast loyalty to Papa that kept the fourth son and his foreign wife in some good graces in the palace; to cross Mom and Papa meant losing Nader's support. "Our source is someone close to the prince and his family," Grandfather said smoothly after a beat. "They were in Derdriu looking for Ali's wayward son, they said."

He cleared his throat and looked left. "You've been quiet, Hercule."

A sigh from the left; the duke was frowning. "I won't lie, if I knew for certain we could strike a decisive blow against the Almyrans while they're distracted, I would be advocating a very different course of action. We can only hope this Ali is a very different man than his father."

Was it his imagination but was Holst, _the_ Holst Goneril, pouting? "Father."

He shook his head. "Holst, I've heard what you have to say, but little Claude has a point that we should tread carefully if we don't want the Almyrans united under the wrong banner against us. What would be the point of invading the east, anyway? So we can rule over some barbarians with nothing to offer but sandy rocks?"

Harsh, but fair. "Are we ready for a vote? All in favor of remaining neutral while the Almyrans fight it out?" 

Gloucester held up a hand, sputtering. "Hold on now. Oswald, are you truly letting your grandson speak for you on this matter? I know you have issues with the Almyrans."

His grandfather smiled, and it made Claude shudder to see the wicked gleam in his eyes. "Renard, is it not our duty to raise our children and grandchildren in preparation that any one of them might be required to take up our titles and our seats?" The duke put a hand on Claude's shoulder. "Let us be frank; my health is in decline, and it is my intention to pass my seat to my grandson when he's returned from the Officer's Academy. I've no time or inclination to coddle him, and I would hope that you all will begin to consider him the equal he very soon will be. So, yes, Claude's arguments are aligned with my own. Even if they were not, I would not contradict him. This matter will affect his life far more than my own." Silence, and he continued softly, "I hope I have learned from my previous mistakes."

It was Count Ordelia who spoke at last. "I'm in favor of maintaining neutrality while the Almyrans fight with each other."

"So am I," Hercule said, and then he patted Holst's shoulder when the general sulked. "Don't worry, my boy, they'll be wars enough in your lifetime."

His heart sang in exultation; _this_ was the rush of power. It was easy to understand how one could become addicted to such a feeling. "So we are agreed." Claude neatened his papers. "Well, shall we adjourn for lunch? I heard a rumor they've roasted a whole deer today."

Edmund chuckled; Claude tried not to look surprised at the man smiling fondly at him. "You have a most unusual grandson, Oswald. These meetings might become most entertaining with Claude von Riegan at the helm."

The von Riegans waited until the others left the room to the dining room before Grandfather looked at Claude. "Well done. If you'd like, you can take the afternoon. I'm sure you can find something more interesting to do than discuss grain taxes."

Grandfather was right; watching paint dry would be more interesting than tax collection. "Won't it look odd if I'm not in the afternoon meeting?"

The old man shrugged. "I'll make up an excuse."

He hesitated. "What did you mean, learning from your mistakes?" It was such an odd thing coming from a man who saw these meetings as a more polite version of war, and used every scrap of information to his advantage.

A melancholy smile. "I meant that your mother would have been a much more suitable heir than my Godfrey." A pat on his shoulder. "Go on now, I'll send someone to bring you a plate."

Claude shook his head, thinking about what his grandfather had said. "I'm going to have to get used to the boring bits, too."

Grandfather laughed. "I amend what I said before. Perhaps it was the providence of the Goddess that made Godfrey my child with the Crest, to bring you into being. You might be just what these old bastards need to keep the Alliance straight." Another pat on his shoulder. "Come on, before Hercule and Holst get too impatient and order the lunch service before we've been seated."


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude meets Lorenz.

"I never thought that I would meet someone I liked less than Jahan," Claude wrote in his journal one night shortly after his triumph at the roundtable conference. "But let me tell you about Lorenz Hellman Gloucester."

Another day, another date with Hilda; this time they were visiting the tailor to be measured and fitted for their Officer's Academy uniforms; at least he could get her opinion on if he would look ridiculous wearing his chosen outfit.

"Your hair has gotten so long," she commented when she climbed into the carriage. Five months in the country with no barber and a comment from Grandfather had finally convinced Marcel to stop meddling in Claude's grooming, so his hair had gotten fashionably unruly. She twisted a lock of it around her finger, and then began to braid. Her touch was soft, and he enjoyed the tickling of her fingers as she worked.

"And you're cute as ever." A tap on the carriage roof, and they were off. His tailor first, as his appointment was for the morning. After a lunch that was sure to empty Claude's purse they would visit the dressmaker's for Hilda's outfit.

"Aw, shucks. Mr. von Riegan, you're making me blush." A lie, but a pretty one at that. 

Perhaps it was his victory yesterday, but Claude was feeling a little cocky. "Mister, huh? Well, Miss Goneril, I could do more than make you blush if you wanted."

Hilda gave him a withering glare and a snort of disgust. "You're a scoundrel, and not my type." He chuckled; definitely not. A gold bead appeared from seemingly nowhere, and she capped his braid with it. "Father thinks the world of you."

_What did that have to do with anything?_ He looked at her as she smoothed out her dress. Oh, wait; he needed to stop thinking like the least important prince and instead as the heir of a dukedom. Had Grandfather and Duke Goneril talked about a betrothal between their houses? Anyone with half a mind would try to make the match before Claude ascended as a man able to make his own decisions. 

For once, he had no words; thankfully, he was saved by their arrival at the tailor's. They climbed out of the carriage, and Hilda looked at another parked beside his, this one painted an alarming shade of violet with the Gloucester Crest in gold. "Ugh, Lorenz is here. Have you met him?"

"I've not had the pleasure, no." After a hesitation, he took her hand as they walked the short distance to the tailor shop; if she knew it was a scheme, she had no objections.

She raised an eyebrow. "Pleasure isn't the word I would use."

It wasn't difficult to tell which person was the son of Count Gloucester; purple hair, thin nose, snotty attitude. "This is most irregular. I insist on being given a private fitting room. Don't you know how I am?" _Peach currant didn't fall far from the tree with this one._

The tailor's assistant smiled, placating even as he eyed Claude and Hilda standing there. "If you want a private fitting, you will have to wait. We already have the private rooms booked."

Claude smiled back at the attendant. "If he wants my fitting spot, I don't mind. Hilda's fitting was scheduled after mine, anyway." Aaron wouldn't mind escorting her to the dressmaker's, he was sure.

Violet eyes met his, gave him a once over, and then looked at Hilda. The sneer left his face, replaced with what Claude imagined _he_ imagined to be an ingratiating smile. "Hilda, what a surprise. I was under the impression you wouldn't be attending the Officer's Academy this year. Or any year, to be frank."

Claude felt her lean against him in a coquettish way. "Well, Claude here was just so sweet to offer to help me out with my studies, I thought perhaps it wouldn't be so awful." Oh, she was _good._ He had definitely underestimated her during their first few meetings; she was a political genius whether she realized it or not. "And who wouldn't want to attend the year the Riegan heir will be house leader?"

He continued to smile in that bland, inoffensive way as Lorenz directed his sneer at Claude. "So you're the imposter making claims to the Riegan dukedom."

"Imposter?" He laughed. "I promise you, I'm absolutely related to the old man Riegan." At the very least, he'd inherited a good portion of Grandfather's personality.

"And how can you prove that?" A jab in his direction. "Who are your parents? Where did you grow up? No one seems to know where you came from or even saw you enter the Riegan palace. You just appeared out of thin air."

He could feel Hilda quiver beside him, and he wondered if this was why she hated politics. Claude shrugged. "Can't answer those questions, sorry. Riegan family secrets and all. We all have them, I'm sure." On a hunch, he leaned forward a bit to get into Lorenz's space, and was rewarded with the man backing up almost on instinct. "Tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine. Fair's fair, after all." Lorenz sputtered. "Guess that's a no." Claude gestured toward the back of the shop where the fittings took place. "Your appointment awaits, sir."

The attendant cleared his throat. "Are you sure, Lord Claude? We might not be able to see you today."

Another wave of his hand. "It's fine, I live in Derdriu so I can come back another day. And just Claude's fine. After all, I've only been a lord for a year."

Lorenz seemed to have found his voice. "I won't take charity from the likes of you."

In the end, a compromise; they shared the fitting appointment. They took turns changing into their suits, Lorenz first, and he got a glimpse of the boy's uniform before they switched. Boring, predictable; perfect for House Gloucester. 

When he slipped on his jacket and loose pants for the first time, Claude couldn't help but smile. The jacket was a bit loose, but he would grow between now and the Great Tree Moon so it would be comfortable by then. And warm; in the Derdriu summer it made him sweat a bit, which meant it would be perfect for winter in the mountains. He didn't even need Hilda's approval to know he looked handsome. Everything but the braid, which looked a bit silly as it dangled against his cheek.

This was an oddly intimate thing to be doing with someone you just met, he mused as he allowed the tailor Jean and his assistants to check the fit of his uniform next to the heir of Gloucester now that they were both dressed. He felt Lorenz watching him, and he turned toward the young man. "You may have fooled Duke Riegan, but everyone else sees right through you. What are you after, exactly?"

As if a grifter would just give up such information to a stranger. "What a rude question." That got him an affronted noise from the Gloucester. "And I would pay gold to see someone get one over on my grandfather."

Another harumph from the right. "I'll figure you out and expose you for the fraud you are." He felt the eyes on him again. "Why do you have a braid in your hair? Some memento of your home, I imagine." 

"And that's why I'm going to spend the entire school year with this ridiculous braid in my hair," he concluded with a flourish in his journal. Still, not a total loss, he thought as he flicked the gold cap with his finger, remembering the way the pretty girl with peony hair laughed when he told her about the conversation. If it meant gaining an ally, well, there were worse things to suffer than a bit of fashion. 


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude leaves for Garreg Mach.

"Do you ever wish to go home?"

It was a week out before Claude left for Garreg Mach, and his last day of freedom before the packing would begin. He would go to the monastery, and Aaron to the manor house to begin setting it up to be Claude's permanent residence; while he would be Duke Riegan in all but name after graduation, it was agreed Grandfather would stay in the palace and manage the rest of their territory's affairs while Claude got his feet wet in the countryside. He would return to Derdriu for the conferences and take the Riegan seat.

But he couldn't leave without first saying goodbye to Farah and buy one last meal from her cart. Eight months and the civil war in Almyra rippled through the market even if the general layperson in Derdriu hardly recognized the changes. Less Almyran shops, and those that stayed didn't smile as much as they did before; even Farah frowned more often than not these days.

She looked at him, surprised at his question. "My daughter lives in Almyra, and I'm worried about her."

Claude wondered how this old woman came to live and operate a food stall in the Leicester Alliance; everyone had a story to tell. "I've heard it's not a safe place to be these days." He began to fish coins out of his purse, thinking hard.

She handed him a sheet of wax paper with lamb, the smell making his mouth water. "Almyra's never been particularly safe." At last she smiled. "But I don't need to tell you that, I think."

"I've an idea of what you mean." He pressed the coins into her hand; one silver for his lunch and the twelve Almyran gold Papa had hidden in his journal when he was first banished. She cried out and tried to push his hand back, but he shook his head. "I won't be going back for a long time." He let go and began to eat, pulling a twisting bit of lamb off a skewer; he had grown to love the cinnamon undertone of her cooking. "Go home, see your daughter." _See the Almyran sunset for me._

"Wait," she said as he made to turn and find a table. More skewers piled on what he already had, more than he could probably eat in one sitting. "You're so skinny."

* * *

The next week was a blur of packing, arguments over which books should stay in the palace, which would go with Claude, and what would be taken to the manor house. In the end, a third trunk was added to his things sent on ahead to Garreg Mach; he would travel by horseback with a small guard. With any luck, they would make it in under a week.

At last, the appointed day arrived. He woke up early, even before Aaron had come to fuss at him. Riding clothes already set out; the attendant had his own preparations to attend to, so everything had been set up the night before. He dressed and checked himself over in the mirror; Marcel had finally gotten his way and Claude's hair was just long enough to curl other than the braid he'd taken to wearing in preparation for the monastery. If it weren't for the half-empty shelves, the sight of the sitting room almost fooled him into thinking it was just another day. There was a tray on his breakfast table with a note. "Come see me."

Grandfather and breakfast greeted him as he entered the sitting room of the ducal apartment. A letter folded and set beside the empty bowl before the old man with bits of oatmeal still clinging to the sides, he smiled as Claude sat down. Tea poured as he settled into a plate of sausage and toast. "Well, my dear Claude, I hope you have a good year at the monastery, but do try to behave yourself, hrm?"

"I'll be sure to follow your example."

A chuckle. "Ah, I will pray for your professors." They sat in a comfortable silence as Claude finished his meal and Grandfather his tea. "If you're in need of pocket money while you're at the Academy, don't write to me about it. Anything you need in that direction is Aaron's discretion while you're gone."

"So I'll be living pretty lean is what you're saying."

Another laugh. "He does not have the excuse of being your doting grandfather, after all." Tea set down in a hurry as he coughed, scrabbling for his handkerchief. "Speaking of the man," he continued as if he nothing was wrong, "shall we?"

Claude nodded. "It's about that time, isn't it?" He turned toward the door. "Marcel!" It opened, and the steward entered. "Aaron's still getting ready?"

"I'm not his minder, but from what I understand, yes."

"Can you let him know to meet us in the entrance hall when he's ready?" A noise of assent, and the door shut again. Claude looked at his grandfather with a shrug. "Maybe in ten years I'll win over Marcel."

"He's a difficult man to please. It makes him a good steward." He stood, and Claude followed toward the door, where they paused. His grandfather took him by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "Be safe, my dear Khalid," he whispered; Grandfather's accent was atrocious, but there was no doubt as to what he said and what language he said it in.

He couldn't help it; he began to laugh. "This whole time, you knew."

"What kind of man would I be if I didn't know the name of my favorite grandchild?" At last, they let go. Grandfather was grinning. "I surprised you."

Claude groaned. "Only every other day." Maybe if he lived to be a hundred he would grow half as clever as Oswald von Riegan.

Aaron waited for them in the entrance hall, dressed in his own riding gear. "Your Grace, Lord Claude."

He smiled at his attendant. "One of these days, you're going to call me Claude and nothing else, I'm making it my mission after I come back home."

"That will be the day the world ends, sir." A shadow of a smile played across the man's features. "I'm grateful, however, that you know how to put on your own clothes. I would worry about our parting otherwise."

An exaggerated sigh. "How will I ever drink tea without you to make it for me, Aaron?"

"We all must endure hardships, Lord Claude. Some more than others." Claude snorted, and Aaron even cracked a small smile.

"Well, gentlemen, if you've said your goodbyes," Grandfather said with a twinkle in his eye. A gesture, and the doors opened. 

There in the courtyard, Belle waited for Claude with the guards. Beside them, a handsome gelding with a glossy black coat, wearing new tack and saddle. Aaron frowned even as he eyed the mount with expert eyes. "An Almyran plains rider, am I right?" A smell of his hand, and the horse let Aaron pet his snout.

He nodded. "His name is Savash, and he's yours to do with what you will. If you decide you want to leave me and find employment elsewhere, he goes with you." Claude shrugged when Aaron looked at him with a frown. "You'll need a good horse if we're to travel back and forth."

Aaron cleared his throat, and bowed low. "Thank you, Lord Claude. You're a good man to serve." He paused. "And you, Duke Oswald. Thank you for allowing me to take care of your grandson."

Grandfather put his hand on Aaron's shoulder in an affectionate way. "Thank you for not quitting the first week. I don't know if my boy would have survived if I had to assign Marcel to him."

That got a laugh out of the manservant. With a wave, he pulled himself onto Savash. "Be well, Lord Claude. I'll keep you informed in regards to the manor." He nodded in reply, and watched as Aaron dug his thighs into the horse's sides to bring him to a walk.

"He's pleased with the gift," Claude murmured as they watched him ride away.

"Yes, it was a smart choice, my boy." They looked at one another; Grandfather smiled. "Off you get, as well. It's a long ride through the mountains even in good weather."

Claude paused. "Grandfather." He bowed low. "Thank you for everything."

As he righted himself, he could have sworn he saw his grandfather wiping his eyes dry, but then the old man smiled and kissed his forehead. "May the Goddess watch over you, Claude."

"And over you, Grandfather." One last smile, and he watched his grandfather climb the steps back to the palace. "And drink your tea! I'll know if you don't." A hand waved him off, but something told him the old man was smiling.

Belle tapped a hoof. "I know, girl, we're going." Up in the saddle, he glanced around at the guards who watched for his signal. "Let's ride."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude begins his residence at Garreg Mach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I appreciate each and every one of you for taking this windy road with me.

Garreg Mach Monastery, jewel of the Church of Seiros, was settled deep in the Oghma Mountains between all three of the great nations of Fodlan. Nearly a thousand years old, a bustling town of worn stone surrounding a cathedral ten times the size the one in the Riegan palace. Claude would have never thought he would be so eager to be in a religious school, much less run by a church he didn't particularly believe in. Good thing he practiced.

He found his three trunks waiting in his dormitory room when he arrived. One for clothes, one books, the last for his other personal effects; Apothecary's kit with all his odds and ends, journals and pens and ink, the sheath from his parents. Beneath all that, one last present from Grandfather; the ivory and gold twenty squares board lay nestled at the bottom of his trunk. He opened it to find a note from the old man. "Find a friend to play with so you don't get rusty. Maybe when you come back you'll win a game. With love, Oswald." He set it on the desk with a smile; he already missed the old man.

A knock on the door, and it swung open a bit wider to reveal a tall blond already dressed in the Academy uniform standing there. A vivid blue cape gave him an inkling as to who this might be, and the bow gave it away. "Sorry for intruding, but I'm in the room two doors down and I heard someone."

"No intrusion at all." He held out his hand. "Claude von Riegan, and don't tell me, you're Prince Dimitri."

Great Goddess, his grip could break Claude's hand without even trying. "Y-yes." He seemed stiff, unsure of himself. "I had heard a rumor there was someone from the Riegan house coming to the Academy this year." A hesitation. "You know, technically we're related. Riegan was once a scion of Blaiddyd."

 _Yeah, and then the Riegans beat up the Baiddyds from here until Sunday._ "We're cousins, just fifty times removed." He'd had enough of first cousins for a lifetime, anyway.

That got him a smile, and a genuine one at that, yet there was something still a tinge of sorrow about it. "Seems a bit silly to say, doesn't it?"

Claude shook his head. "Not at all. I'm sure we're related to about half the people attending, but those connections won't be exam questions, eh?" Dimitri blinked, and then laughed; Claude allowed himself to smile. "Anyone else here yet?"

Dimitri nodded. "About half, I'd say. I've been here three days. I came with my retainer, Dedue. Princess Edelgard and Hubert arrived yesterday, as well as most of the Eagles. I believe some of the other Lions are traveling together, and most of the commoners have already arrived." He glanced at the board. "I'm sure Sylvain would love to learn a new game. He's the heir to house Gautier."

Was it his imagination, or did Dimitri blush when he mentioned the imperial princess? "I would love to meet her Royal Princessness."

He did not enjoy it. The Blaiddyd prince waited outside his rooms while Claude changed into his own uniform that had been carefully packed in the trunk with satchels of sandalwood tucked into the corners, bless Aaron, then he allowed Dimitri to give him a tour of the monastery. The commoners had dorms on the first floor, and Claude felt a touch of envy; the training grounds were on the opposite side of the campus from the dormitory stairs and not that much closer to the dining hall compared to the first floor. He wondered if there was a chance to switch rooms; he didn't care about status.

They found Hubert and Edelgard in the courtyard outside the dining hall, and he got the impression this would be a common sight. Dimitri definitely colored as they approached. "Lady Edelgard, Hubert."

Claude had never seen such an unwelcoming smile in all his life. "Dimitri, you don't have to refer to me so. We're all equals at the Academy."

 _You don't believe that._ He could see it in the way she assessed him, taking in his hair, clothes, the dangling earring; something told him the imperial princess had judged and found him lacking even before he had spoken. Well, she wasn't the first. "Claude von Riegan, pleasure." He put his hand out, but she did not take it immediately the way the prince had. "I'm Duke Riegan's grandson."

Hubert frowned at him; now there was a dour face. "Lady Edelgard doesn't need to be told who you are. We're well aware of the surprise announcement of an heir to the Riegan dukedom last year." His expression matched the princess. "A most curious affair."

Claude dropped his hand, still untouched. "My family and I have an arrangement, that's all. I'm sure you understand the need for secrets. You're going to be the next Minister of the Imperial Household, so you of all people understand what I mean by that." He smiled, easy and charming.

At least the princess had a pleasant laugh, even if it seemed a bit forced. "So open with the fact that you keep secrets. You _are_ an unusual noble."

He shrugged. "No sense beating around the bush about something everyone knows to be true." 

Dimitri seemed to be struggling with the conversation; poor prince definitely never had to argue with his uncle Rufus about grain tariffs. Or lucky, whichever. "Come now, the Academy is intended to be a place for the people of Fodlan to join together. It was built to prepare us for invasions from outsiders, after all."

Edelgard tossed her hair behind her shoulder, a carefully practiced gesture to make her seem more careless than she really was. "We all have our borders to secure, that is true."

Well, there was more than one way to secure a border. "Looking forward to spending more time with you, your royal Highnesses even if I'm just a lowly duke's grandson."

* * *

Claude sat on the desk at the front of the Golden Deer classroom, waiting. His boots knocked against the front of the desk in a pleasant rhythm as he swung his feet. All the students from the Alliance had arrived, and today they would meet their house leader, some of them for the first time. A list lay on the desk beside him, but he had already memorized it. Today was orientation day for the students; tomorrow Claude and their Royalnesses would be camping for leadership training or some such nonsense.

First; a tiny girl, looking hardly more than a child, but with hair white as fresh snow. She examined him. "You're Claude?"

"The one and only." He tilted his head. "You're either Ordelia or Edmund, am I right?" She confirmed the former. "You sure you're old enough to be all by yourself in this school?"

She snorted, eyes rolling. "I could turn you to ash with a word." Okay, then.

After her, an odd couple: Raphael Kirsten really was as big as his grandfather said. Cheerful, though, a sharp contrast to the mousy Ignatz Victor, who jumped when Claude correctly guessed he was the other merchant's son in their class. "Your grandpa really helped us out, you know," Raphael boomed, and Claude smiled despite himself.

Lorenz next, and he glared at Claude's swinging feet as he sat down. "Uncouth." Ugh, and he'd have to share a wall with this prig for the next year? A room switch was definitely in order.

Shortly behind him, the last three at the same time; Leonie Pinelli smiled at him, and Hilda and Marianne von Edmund, arms looped through one another. Hilda winked at him, but Marianne seemed to find the floor more interesting than the people around her. "So, that's everyone." He rubbed his hands together. "So, I'm Claude von Riegan, and I'll be your house leader this year." He flicked the jaunty goldenrod cape on his shoulder to make it flutter. "I've got some things I've been told I have to go over today for orientation."

"Are you really related to the Riegans?" Leonie asked from the back of the room; not unfriendly, just direct.

He winked. "Sure am. I'll show you my Crest, if you like."

Lorenz snorted. "Do you flirt with all the girls that way?"

"I'll show you my Crest, too, if it'll make you feel better." Lorenz's face turned nearly as red as the fake rose pinned to his jacket. Hilda snorted from the back. "So, professors. We don't know which professor will be assigned to us, but I'm hoping for Professor Manuela. I get the feeling she'll be a lot more lenient with us, and a lot more fun. Any thoughts?" Chattering started, and Claude watched as the discussion unfolded about the merits each professor. A rowdy crowd, to be sure, but nothing he couldn't handle.

* * *

_Well, that was a fucking disaster,_ Claude mused as they traveled back to the monastery. What was meant to be an exercise in leadership turned into a hot little skirmish with some very disorganized bandits. The professor bolted at the first sight of the bandits, leaving the three of them alone in the dark with an enemy approaching, and the training bow Claude had been given for protection wasn't going to do much against their aggressors. Dimitri may have been strong, but tactical thinking escaped the eager young prince as he followed Claude in his retreat. Thank the Goddess they had run into the Eisners when they did.

So, the Blade Breaker and the Ashen Demon. _Legends,_ whispered the Knights as they packed up camp. A former captain of the Knights of Seiros turned mercenary, and his child. Claude's eyes missed nothing; the old man did _not_ want to return to the monastery; why? If he had to make a guess, it had to do with the blank-faced Byleth who walked with the students now.

Damn Edelgard and Dimitri for begging so openly for Byleth's favor. The princess could pretend all she liked, but they both had ambitions same as Claude, big enough to forget all that delicate political training and show such naked avarice. It had forced Claude's hand to admit he had his own desires in regards to the mercenaries, and he resented it.

He considered the elder Eisner as they walked as he listened to Edelgard and Dimitri jostle for the upper hand in terms of Byleth's good graces. It was the father that made the decisions as to what jobs they took and where they traveled. But to gain his trust, to take his own measure of the man? Impossible, it would be seen as odd if he tried to befriend the father, more so than Claude wanted to appear.

So he turned his thoughts toward Byleth. The younger Eisner didn't speak much, and Claude was more than content to let it lie for now; better to wait until they were back at the monastery to start the charm offensive when he wasn't being crowded out. Instead, he spent the way back considering his plan. Trust would be needed; his secrets required the utmost discretion, and putting his faith in a pair of mercenaries was tricky even in the best scenario. If he found what he was looking for in the younger, he'd be willing to take that risk, and it would be mutually beneficial if he was right that Jeralt would want any excuse to leave the monastery. _Wonder if old man Eisner would like to take a trip to Almyra and meet the royal family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Is it any wonder why we all leave home  
>  People say, I knew you when you were six years old  
> And you say, but I've changed, I've changed, I've changed_
> 
> _Mom and Dad, if only you could see me now  
>  Been here for a year and now I own this town  
> 'Cause I've changed, I've changed, I've changed_
> 
> "Ghosts," The Head and the Heart


End file.
